Remember my blood
by ttalis
Summary: They met in a place of transition, where old and new lived side by side, the past enclaved by the present. A whisper fell from her lips, "Tali." / This is completely AU.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: This story is completely AU, and goes hand-in-hand with my favorite cliché. (Feel free to roll your eyes later!) It begins with the end of season 5 when Ziva is in Israel and then it takes you through the years.  
__Disclaimer: I do not own NCIS and I am in no way affiliated with the show and/or its creators.  
__Content warning: Please read carefully._

**Remember my blood**

_**Jerusalem, summer 2008 (present day)**_

The city was quiet. The western wall shone golden in the afternoon light. People have gathered here to say their prayers; Ziva was amongst them, bowing her head in humble reverence as she whispered her thanks to the heavens. She rarely had the chance to pray here; she rarely had the chance to pray at all. There was no time for such trivial things in her life. It often saddened her to think of how much she had drifted from her faith and so it was in solemn moments such as this one, when her hand came into contact with a thousand years of history, the history of her people, that she remembered all that she loved and cared about so very deeply. It overwhelmed her with unspeakable emotion, and when she withdrew her hand from the wall she vowed to never forget it, "Or let my right hand wither."

The sentiment was genuine. Although Ziva found more pain than joy in remembering her roots and has therefore opted to store any thought of her past in a far corner of her mind, she never purposely set out with the intend of erasing all that she was: a woman of faith and integrity, an unwavering spirit. But as it was in life and faith alike, next year in Jerusalem became the year after that and the year after that and suddenly half a decade has passed.

Her memories had become like flowers that never saw the light of day; over the years they had become brittle and dead. This especially unsettled her when she realized that she could no longer remember her sister's sweet voice or her mother's beautiful eyes, the name of her favorite horse at Uncle Yoni's stables, or the route she had taken to school every day. Summers in Haifa blurred together, years morphed into decades, dreams were forgotten and she slowly became untangled from the earth that she was raised upon.

Ziva had come to the wall to strengthen her roots, to find herself again, to remember. Every word that fell from her lips was like a drop of water that nourished the rotten skeleton that just barely kept her from falling off the face of the earth, from disappearing, from dissolving into nothingness. She did not have much time to burn the images into her mind, to make sure that Jerusalem would forever live in her thoughts. A mission was awaiting her; come tomorrow and she would be gone. But with every quietly uttered prayer she felt herself sink deeper into the holy ground.

She first saw her on that very same Shabbat afternoon.

They passed each other by the Sha'ar Tzion, the Zion Gate. Ziva walked outwards, _she _walked inwards. The irony was palpable and symbolic in nature. They met in a place of transition, where old and new lived side by side, the past enclaved by the present.

A whisper fell from her lips, "Tali."

Ziva did not think, did not hesitate as she followed the familiar mop of untamed hair back into the city. She lost sight of her briefly as she maneuvered through locals, tourists and a crowd of elderly monks. But she pressed on as if led by a supernatural force. Her feet carried her down a flight of stairs and through the country yard of a private residence until she arrived to an empty passage. Her heart sunk and she began to feel utterly foolish.

The winding streets of the Old City had the ability to create images in a person's mind, to take them back in time, to make them forget sense and reason altogether, to fool them into delusion. Ziva was familiar with hirngespinster and so resigned to this woman being one of them.

_**Jerusalem, summer 1990 (flashback)**_

You saw them briefly but never completely; like ghosts they passed your vision but disappeared before you had the chance to take a look. They jumped from one shadow into the next, giggling as they did so. A man turned for them, but by the time he discovered the source of mischief they had already moved on to a different corner of the market, underneath a different table, into a different shadow.

Ziva turned to her sister, whispering into her hair as if to tell a secret, "I will steal you an orange, watch!" And with that she detached herself from the wall they were hiding behind and skillfully moved through skirts and tunics to get to the fruit stand. There she stood, sweetly, innocently, behind an old lady until no one was looking. Then she snatched up the brightest orange of the bunch and was gone again in the blink of an eye.

Tali waited behind the wall and watched with curious eyes as her big sister taught her the ways of a market thief. It was a game Ziva was entirely unaware of. She only wanted to gift her baby sister with an orange. Tali, however, wanted to learn.

And so it came as no surprise to anyone but Ziva when Tali announced that she wanted to try herself at stealing an orange too. The smaller one of the two did not get as far as the fruit stand though. Instead she stumbled over her clumsy little feet and fell right into a puddle of mud. Ziva immediately pressed through the crowd of market-shoppers and dropped to her sister's side, "Taleh, are you all right?"

Tali nodded, "Ken," but her eyes betrayed her. Her eyes welled with tears and her chin quivered. Ziva sighed when realized what her sister was trying to do. She was trying to not cry, for Ziva never cried. Ziva became angry and loud and threw the occasional fit but she never cried. Tali looked up to her sister as if she was something she should aspire to become, as if she was some sort of role-model. So when she fell and scraped her knees she swore that she was all right but the truth was in her eyes.

The truth was _always _in Tali's eyes.

"Taleh, it is all right to cry," Ziva promised. She tugged her towards a stack of hay to sit upon and took a good look at the hands and the knees. Tali was not bleeding and so Ziva decided that the tears came from the surprise of falling rather than the pain of it. She nudged her sister's side, "But it is all right to smile too. Would you rather do that?"

Tali nodded and flashed a wide grin. Ziva wanted this for her sweet baby sister. She had already seen too much, had already heard too much as to fool herself into believing that she could escape the war that surrounded them. She saw it with their father, she saw it with their mother, she saw it with Ari when he came to visit. They did not smile anymore. Tali was still unaffected by the reality of this world and Ziva would be damned if her sister ever unlearned to smile.

"Come on, let us find Ima." She took Tali's hand and helped her up. Together they wandered through the market in pursuit of their mother and shared the orange Ziva had stolen.

_**Tel Aviv, summer 2008 (present day)**_

Ziva did not think of Tali much in the following few days. She became busy preparing for an assignment that would take her to Morocco by the end of tomorrow. There was not enough time to muse about the woman she had briefly encountered in Jerusalem, not enough time to even enjoy the seaside apartment she had temporarily rented. Although the view was stunning and the salty air kissed her awake every morning, it did not soothe the nerves or calm the spirit as she collected her belongings for the undercover mission.

Ziva did not know what would expect her. The assignment was vague in nature and purpose, unclear in execution, set in motion by Director Vance, followed through by her father, and so it became her responsibility. It always became her responsibility.

She approached her father's office with that sort of stoic, emotionless expression that he insisted was the only way to survive in this world. He did not know that she went into every assignment with fear and the perhaps not so subconscious desire to never return. He did not need to know about such trivial things. Ziva knocked and went in.

"Aba, I am ready to leave."

Eli glanced up from his desk and took a good look at his daughter. She stood like the soldier that she was raised to be, determined, independent, clutching the bag that had been given to her at the beginning of her career. It was starting to fall apart at the seams but Eli supposed it held sentimental value and did not question her choice regarding carry-on.

He came around the table and took her by the shoulders. He searched her eyes for a couple of moments as if to convince himself that she was indeed ready to depart, ready for whatever would await her in Morocco. Ziva's eyes did not waver and so he contented himself with a kiss on the forehead in lieu of a goodbye.

"Make me proud, Zivaleh."

"Ken, Aba."

An hour later Ziva was in the air, heading straight for Casablanca. The nightly skyline of Tel Aviv had long since faded into darkness, swallowed by a thousand nights. It seemed as though the world had ceased to exist and this provided Ziva with just enough comfort to close her eyes and to fall into what would possibly be the last satisfying nap until the mission was over.

She dreamed of Tali. A dream of that nature was not in itself rare; she dreamed of Tali often. But this time she saw her sister as she would look like at twenty-three; her beautiful dark eyes and that wonderfully wild hair. She saw the sweet, innocent smile that Ziva had struggled so hard to protect. She saw the woman she had briefly passed at the gates and it gave her an alien feeling. Momentarily she wondered if it could be…

But all this wore off in time; once Ziva touched down in Morocco she had forgotten all about her Jerusalem hirngespinst.

_**Washington, fall 2008 (present)**_

The month of November had never been a favorite. It was the time of the year when Ziva's thoughts darkened with the night, when early morning walks became late afternoon runs, when something dull and tired replaced the usual glint in her eyes, when her spirit wept. It was the time of year when coffee seemed to be the only thing that kept her alive, when she was naturally on edge and when getting tickets to the opera was especially difficult.

Her birthday came and went with few gifts and congratulations. Abby had initially hoped to throw a party, but Ziva displayed an attitude that even Tony understood. It was an attitude that conveyed the simple message of _'do not'_. Nobody questioned her uncharacteristically pensive state; nobody asked her what was wrong.

Nobody knew.

Tali's birthday arrived a week and a half later, bringing with it sorrow and regret. Ziva wallowed in bittersweet memories for most of the day, the prospect of going to the opera that night being the only thing that kept her from lashing out at Tony when he became particularly obnoxious and would not shut up when she told him to.

It has not always been like this, Ziva realized as she pondered over a stack of paperwork. There used to be a time when November was indeed her favorite month, when she counted the days until. That was when family and friends gathered on the morning of Tali's special day to celebrate the sisters' birthdays together, to gift them with things that never meant as much as their mere presence, to shower them with love.

'_We asked God for this, you know,' _their Ima had promised one year. _'We asked him to give us two beautiful daughters in the month of November, so they might celebrate together.' _Tali had forever lived with the illusion that this was true, but Ziva had soon learned that it was only one of the many lies told to make up for everything their parents had not asked for; things like death and war, things like bloodshed and a difficult marriage.

The visit to the opera was different every year. Sometimes Ziva watched with a stoic expression, uninterested, unaffected. Sometimes she quietly wept in her seat, unable to contain the grief she felt for her lost sister. Ziva knew Tali had dreamed of going to the opera with her. She had often spoken about it in her sixteenth year.

'_Let us go to the opera in the summer! Tosca at Masada, just the two of us, how about it?'_

Tali had not lived to see the summer, and so Ziva had gone to see Puccini all by herself. Out of this a tradition was born. The day had changed, however, from a random summer night to Tali's birthday. Ziva did not want to celebrate her sister's day of dying, but honor her day of living instead.

This year she sat in silent wonder. Her thoughts were with Tali, the woman she had seen in Jerusalem and all the things that could have been.

_**Washington, spring 2009 (present)**_

She saw her for the second time on the first day of spring.

Through the window of the coffee shop Ziva caught sight of her. She stood idly by the counter, munching away at a cherry muffin and squinting her eyes at the newspaper in front of her as if she did not quite understand the words. Ziva's initial surprise turned into somewhat of a déjà vu. The image was distorted, as if she was looking through a kaleidoscope at a time long gone; at Tali, her stars and the sun, shining through the blurred glass of the café. This time, unlike last time, Ziva did not hesitate.

She knew within her heart that it could not be; Tali was dead. But her emotions defied logic and so she approached the woman who wore the face of her sister, her own in many ways, without a second thought. Their resemblance was stunning. From afar you could not make out a difference. Upon closer inspection you would find, however, that Ziva's features were more defined, sharp and angular, while this woman's were fuller, chubbier, portraying a sort of youth and childlike innocence.

Ziva almost tapped her on the shoulder, almost said something to her, almost called her by her sister's name. But sense returned to the better parts of her decision-making and she let her go. With a heavy heart she watched the woman, the spitting image of her sister, as she collected her muffin and the newspaper and the coffee she had waited on and left.

An hour later she returned to the office. Tony and McGee watched with mild curiosity as she sunk into her chair _without _the coffee she had gone out to buy for them. The two men exchanged a few glances before Tony dared to speak, "Did something happen?"

Ziva shook her head, "No. They ran out of coffee." What a pathetic lie, but at least it silenced them. Tony and McGee opted for coffee from the vending machine and Ziva did not say a word until late into the night when Tony caught her by the elevator. He stopped it Gibbs-style and then proceeded to stare at her.

"You need to work on that, DiNozzo," she told him offhandedly.

"Well, you certainly have the boss down to a science, functional muteness 'n all. What happened?"

She let out a sigh and restarted the elevator, "It is nothing."

In truth, it was everything. Ziva had pondered over the coincidence of someone looking like her for many hours and concluded that it was entirely impossible. The other option was also entirely impossible. Ziva was torn between a feeling of grief and a feeling of hope, one more gut-wrenching than the other. She could not bring herself to accept any possible reality though, because believing that her sister might be alive meant that she had let her go.

_Twice._

_**Cairo, spring 2002 (flashback)**_

Ziva was comfortably lodged inside of a café when the news came.

"Aba," she said into the phone, "Ma shlomcha?" She sounded almost enthusiastic upon hearing her father's voice for the first time in many months. There was no time for familial catch-ups when allies were threatened and lives were in danger. It was not unusual for someone in her position to go months without speaking to anybody dear.

"Where are you, Ziva?" Eli's tone was bitter and deeply troubled. It was so unlike her father who usually spoke with a sort of calm and added hints of humor. Instant worry overcame her.

"I am at a café," she said, glancing up at her present company with a frown, uncertainty, a fear for the worst.

Jenny watched from across the table. She noticed the subtle change in Ziva's expression, the way it suddenly darkened. Her eyes became void of their usual glint, her complexion turned pale. Her left eye-lid twitched. Ziva was a bright spirit. She was hardy and resilient. To see the blood drain from her cheeks like this was a reason for concern. Ziva's expression did not sink unwarranted.

Jenny leaned forward, "What happened?"

It took Ziva an uncharacteristically long time to find her voice again. When she did, it came in a whisper, "Tali is dead."

Her words were not directed at Jenny and not at herself either. They sounded foreign in her head, distant, as if someone stood next to her, narrating this moment of her life. Her words were so surreal that for a moment Ziva itched to laugh at them. _Tali, dead, ha! _But then the whole of the news hit her and she caught on fire.

Ziva stormed out of the café in a furious frenzy. Her stomach twisted painfully but she continued two walk, aimlessly, hopelessly, absolutely defeated by the reality that had just been presented to her through the phone.

Tali was dead. Her sweet and innocent Tali; the sun and the stars.

_Dead._

A scream died on her lips, it becoming only one of the many things she would never say.


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: If you do not know where I'm going with this, I promise it will make sense soon! This is part 2, enjoy!_  
_Content warning: This chapter is not an easy read, so please proceed with caution._

**Chapter 2**

_**Washington, spring 2009 (present day)**_

Michael loved her. He said so every time they came together in heated moments of passion and hushed post-coitus whispers, in sleepy morning confessions and secret getaways that no one knew about. He promised that there was a thrill to being her elusive lover, that he enjoyed the secrecy. She sighed and told him that Tony was jealous and that McGee was worried and that there would be problems in the future. But he merely smiled, unaffected, and kissed her quiet.

She did not feel the same way about this game of hide and seek. _This _was the real secret.

The truth was that she was tired of hiding and she was especially tired of seeking; seeking answers. The combination of anger and betrayal was never a good one and so she grew increasingly agitated and suspicious of Michael and his love for her. She knew that she was being excluded. She knew that she was being played. She took him despite her better judgment. She took him hard and often but any attempt to coax the truth out of him was in vain. Her father had trained him well. She shuddered at the thought of him while giving sexual favors.

She knew it was over when he did not tell her he loved her one night, when they collapsed in sweat and tears and when he rolled over to his side of the bed, leaving her a used, worn-out rag doll.

Death came to her door in late spring. It came in the night and stole away her lover. It double parked and wore the face of a friend. It stank of betrayal, missed chances and misplaced priorities. It struck suddenly and unexpectedly and without a warning. It struck not once or twice but four times in the chest.

It did not kill immediately.

But Ziva knew that she had come too late when she saw them on the floor, when she pressed into Michael's flesh to stop the bleeding, when she begged him to stay with her, "Come on, stay with me!" She knew that she had come too late when he grabbed her wrist and apologized, when she shouted at Tony to call an ambulance and when they wheeled him away.

"I am sorry, Miss David. There was nothing we could do."

Michael was dead; his murder the terrible end to a scheme she should have seen coming, should have expected. She therefore blamed herself. The feeling was familiar. It embraced her like an old friend, _'we meet again, Zivaleh.' _It was a feeling of utter depression, of grief and fear. It was a feeling Ziva could compare to nothing more properly than the clouded mind of someone who had wrapped themselves into delusion, someone that was high on morphine, someone that was entirely unable to grasp the blatant reality in front of them.

It was by sheer luck that she had not been inside of the apartment when it happened, when the shots were fired, when the walls came apart and ashes settled upon all that once meant so much to her. It was by sheer luck that she had not died like her sister, that it was not her blood that would forever stain the concrete, that she had somehow managed to survive again.

The irony was, or it would be if the circumstances were different, amusing. Faces and events repeated themselves over time; life, a terrible circle of misfortunes. Ziva had been here before, had escorted the body of a loved one before, and while she sat by Michael's side she thought only of Ari and the guilt that had been her constant companion since his death.

_**Washington, fall 2005 (flashback)**_

Blood pooled on the floor; with every word that so melodically left her lips it sank deeper into the ground. To sing was the least she could do for him after she had killed him like an animal, took his life like it mattered as much as that of a rat, and now watched passively as his blood returned to the earth from whence it had come.

The terrible, insufferable grief that Ziva was all too familiar with announced itself in waves of nausea and regret. It clung to her bones and ate away at her flesh and wrapped her in darkness as strangers wrapped her brother in white and took him away. She followed, all the while her song echoed inside of her head, _'El male rachamim, God full of mercy…'_

There was a mutual understanding between her and Gibbs when he handed her the report and she found his name instead of hers as that of the executioner. He took the blame; perhaps to protect her, perhaps to satisfy his conscious, perhaps there was another reason entirely. No one knew that she had orders to kill Ari, and Ziva did not tell. It was unimportant, unnecessary. And it would not change the outcome.

Ari was dead, and he would have been either way. If he had not died at her hands or Gibbs' hands, he would have died at their father's upon returning to Tel Aviv. Ziva would not have lied. She had been blind to her brother's faults for so long, had loved him too much to see past his mistakes, had foolishly believed that their shared blood meant something.

In the end it was this very blood that had torn them apart.

She understood why Gibbs took upon himself the responsibility of Ari's murder. They had wanted each other dead since they first met; Ziva had merely become a tool in their game, the final straw, the last toss of dice. She had ended the game on Gibbs' behalf, betraying her brother, her blood, her family. But no one cared about such things anymore. Her father would be pleased. He was not the one to live with the tremendous guilt of having killed family. He would never know the truth.

Ziva knew the truth and that was enough to keep her awake at night. She knew that no prayer and no song would ever cleanse her of the sin, of the terrible crime she had committed, of her brother's blood.

She knew that her punishment would be brutal.

_**Tel Aviv, spring 2009 (present day)**_

"We were foolish, Eli, to think that we could keep them apart."

Amit Hadar was a good man. He was loyal, reliable and owned an intelligence that Eli often envied. He had a particular talent for thinking strategically and efficiently, for weighing the options and always choosing the best course of action. This had made him not only Eli's right hand man but a good friend too. Hearing him doubt his decision – a decision _they _had made collectively – was a reason for mild concern.

"When will she arrive?"

"She will be here by the end of this week. We cannot delay her return to Tel Aviv any longer."

"Ziva will not be in the country by the end of this week, I assure you. She will finish what Michael started."

Hadar's eyebrows shot up in question. His friend spoke with such clarity, such conviction, as if he believed he could play his daughter like a puppet. Perhaps he could, Hadar contemplated. The concept of parenting had always been foreign to him. Then again, Eli had once been a father to three was now a father to one; to take him as an example was probably not a good idea.

"How are you sure she will follow your orders?"

Eli smiled, "She is my daughter. I have raised her to follow orders."

This was true. Although he had not seen her much in recent years due to her liaison position he knew that she was, despite her fire, a reliable soldier, uncomplaining, unwavering, following orders as if she lived for them. Hadar's own protégé, although blessed with a sense of duty much like Ziva's, had a way of asking questions, of challenging an order, its purpose, its consequences. She, _unlike _Ziva, had caused the agency a lot of grief with her stubborn little head.

Eli once laughed at him, "Hadar, these are the joys of parenting," but there was a kind of sorrow in his eyes, a longing, a silent wish to be the one to kiss her goodbye when she left for yet another assignment. Hadar knew that Eli missed her, and so he was naturally torn between sharing his joyful anecdotes and keeping them to himself. He usually kept them to himself; they were his memories now; _she _was his now.

"We were lucky that they have not met in Jerusalem last year," Hadar mused as he leaned back in his chair. "We must coordinate their schedules more carefully in the future to avoid such close encounters."

"I agree, my friend, but let us worry in due time. The circumstances of Michael's death take priority. I have to – how do you say? – _pick a bone_ with someone."

"Anthony DiNozzo."

"Precisely. It is because of him that we find ourselves in this fragile situation."

"Are you referring to inter-agency cooperation, or Ziva?"

Eli did not answer. Instead he pushed himself out of his chair and sauntered towards the window with such casualty in his stride it would fool anyone into thinking that there was not a care in his life. Hadar knew this was his cue to leave. He had his orders; he knew what to do.

"Officer Hadar," Eli called after him.

"Yes, Director David?"

"Give Tali a kiss from me when she returns from Johannesburg."

_**Johannesburg, spring 2009 (present day)**_

You would think that an established agency was capable of giving concrete and definite orders, but the way she was directed and redirected would give even the hardiest of agents a whiplash. She became increasingly frustrated with Amit Hadar's excuses as to why she could not come home. She liked Johannesburg all right, but there was only so much South African charm a lady can handle.

"We need you in Johannesburg a little while longer, Taleh."

You would also think that a senior field agent was capable of fabricating a believable lie. But she had known Hadar for far too long, had played far too many games of poker with him, had _won _nearly as many, and was not fooled. His voice was an octave higher when he lied, his inflection slightly off. Tali was an opera singer; she knew these things and she was not shy to call him out.

"Why are you lying to me, Hadar?"

He knew they were talking business for the mere use of his last name. He knew that she knew; knew _something. _Hadar wondered if perhaps she had learned this level of secrecy from him. She definitely had his persistence, and the persistence of her father and the fire that he remembered Rivka to have. She was the living embodiment of all the Davids had to offer – except that her name was no longer David.

"I want you to enjoy yourself. Rest, go sights-seeing."

"I would rather enjoy myself in Jaffa."

"I know, Tali. Soon."

As much as she wanted to, Tali knew that there was no use in arguing. She could not reason with Amit Hadar once he had made the decision to lie to her. This asked for a different approach. She needed to think strategically and if there was one thing she had learned from this man then it was to think strategically.

"Shalom, Officer Hadar."

She had more to say to him; eloquent and thought-out arguments regarding loyalty, mutual trust and familial responsibility, all of which burned with sarcasm and expressive fury. But it was entirely unlike Tali to push a matter when she knew that she could not win, not from across the world, not over the phone. She would be patient. She would let Hadar believe that he had the upper hand until she was ready to turn the tables and break it.

Despite her cautious mistrust she managed to enjoy herself in Johannesburg. It was admittedly refreshing to explore a foreign city without orders, without a target, undirected. It was liberating to strip herself of her gun, to change her cargos for a summer dress, to let her hair down and to sink her feet into the cool, comfortable waters of Emmarentia Dam. She ignored Hadar's incessant inquiries; even as the details of her return were sent over she did not respond.

This was her silent rebellion.

_**Horn of Africa, summer 2009 (present day)**_

Malachi warned her, "It is suicide," as if she did not know, as if she had not already made a decision, as if he could change her mind. Ziva appreciated his attempt though. He was a good man. He was caring, polite, thoughtful, and in another life perhaps she could be his friend. In _this_ life, however, he was an inconvenience.

"It is what it is."

It was a suicide mission if she went alone, yes, but it would have been a suicide mission either way. Malachi did not know it, but Ziva was not a reliable partner anymore. She went into the desert with the intent, the desire even, to never return. She had known this mission would take her life from the beginning, had come to terms with dragging Malachi down with her if it was necessary. He did not know of his blatant _luck _to have been shot. His murder would not weigh on her conscious. Malachi would live.

"Goodbye."

Ziva whole heartedly believed that she deserved this, that she had set herself up for this, that everything she had done in her life, all the pain she had caused and all the lives she had taken, came together into this mission, into this moment, a final standoff between her and her demons, one last attempt to make her life mean something in death.

This was the punishment she had always known would come for her. It came with knives and fire and filthy hands. It came with blood and sweat and tears and without mercy. Mercy did not live in the desert. Only wildcats lived in the desert and they delighted in playing with their prey.

Karma was a bitch, hey?

She drifted in and out of consciousness. She was too tired to stay awake, too alert and in pain to sleep. Footsteps echoed inside of the room, _thump, thump._ The heavy boots kicked up dirt and dust and shattered glass. They kicked her when they felt especially bored and she lay oh so conveniently in the center of the room.

One of the men crouched down in front of her. He took her chin into his filthy hand and made her look at him. Through her swollen and bloodshot eyes she saw his dirty face, his ugly grin, his dark and hungry gaze, his desire. He stank of tobacco and lust, of primal urges and a complete abandonment of morals and basic hygiene.

She was disgusted with him and herself when he took her, when he disregarded her like a piece of meat once he had finished, when he left her to weep in the sand. But all this was bearable because she knew that once she had suffered her punishment, once she had made up for her sins, she would be released into the sweet embrace of death.

She knew her sister would be waiting for her there.

_**Cairo, spring 2002 (flashback)**_

There were decisions fueled by anger, and there were decisions fueled by terror, grief or fear. There were decisions fueled by sheer indifference, but rarely were there decisions fueled by all of these factors simultaneously. When Ziva saw the gun that was aimed at Jenny her brain short circuited and disconnected from what would have otherwise made her second guess any reckless impulse. Within the fraction of a second she had made the decision to throw herself in the line of fire and now lay on the ground bleeding, choking, dying.

And she did not care.

There was no one waiting for her at home, no one to greet her, to heal her wounds, to embrace her and kiss her and tell her that she had been missed. But perhaps there was someone waiting at home for Jenny – a set of lips, the grabby hands of children, a dog, a glass of bourbon surely – and perhaps Jenny would one day tell them about Ziva, the woman who had taken a bullet for her.

It was a legacy she could live with – or die with.

It would be beautiful, poetic even, to die on the same day as her sister, to be buried with her, to go to heaven with her. It would be one last act of loyalty, solidarity, one last act of love. In her mind's eye she saw her. Tali stood with her hands at her hips and a disapproving shake of her head. She looked so much like their mother and Ziva wondered if Tali knew just how much they were alike.

"I am sorry," Ziva whispered into the sand, "I am sorry I never told you about her."

Tali had asked about their mother many times when they were young. She asked _'what was Ima like?' _for her memory had become fuzzy. Ziva longed to tell her, _'Tali, you have her eyes and her smile and her laugh and when you get angry your nose scrunches like hers.' _But she never did tell her. The grief sat too deep, the longing was too terrible, the fear too great. Not even Tali's accusations of wanting their mother all to herself could revive the words that had died on Ziva's lips.

They would get to know each other in heaven now.

She felt herself slip away. Her vision became blurry and her heart slowed. The life poured from her veins and Ziva did not fight. She yearned for the embrace of death, longed to go with her sister, to meet their mother together. But something held her to this world; something incessant and stubborn. A name was called and it took her a moment to realize that it was in fact hers. Jenny was shaking her, pressing down to where the bullet had hit, shouting at her, "Don't leave me, Ziva, don't you dare leave me!"

Ziva looked at her sister one last time, "Tell Ima that I love her."

Through the wind she imagined she could hear Tali's sweet voice whispering into her ear, _'Goodbye, Zivaleh. I will see you soon.' _The wind touched her gently, a sweet caress of fingers, one last kiss from her baby sister.

And then she was gone.


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: Thank you so much for your lovely reviews and follows! This is part 3, enjoy the ride!  
__Content warning: Yes. Read carefully._

**Chapter 3**

_**Tel Aviv, summer 2009 (present day)**_

The grief was blatant in his eyes. It raged like a violent ocean of regret and anger; anger at the world, but mostly at himself for he alone was to blame. He had killed his daughter. He had pulled the trigger that very likely ended her life, or perhaps he had worn the boot that kicked her to death or something else, something worse.

It did not matter now.

"We have not received news of a woman arriving at the camp. She was most likely killed on the way," Malachi explained. He hoped that perhaps knowing that it was not the mission and therefore not his order that had killed her, but an unpredictable journey, a terrible misfortune that could have hit any of them, would put the Director at ease.

But this also did not matter.

Ziva was dead, _his _Ziva. Her bones, rotting away in the desert, dispersed across mountains and valleys by the claws of hungry hawks, carried away by the wildcats that he knew she feared so much. He felt sick. His face turned pale. And finally he understood what it meant to have killed blood, to have murdered family. Ziva's burden was his burden now. All the pain and the suffering she had endured over the years released upon him like a mighty tempest, soaking him with poisoned rain. That poison was grief and terrible, insufferable guilt.

He was now a childless father. Anger seeped from his pores and upon seeing this, Hadar gave Malachi a dismissing nod.

"I am so sorry for your loss, Sir," he excused himself finally.

It was their collective loss. The agency had lost a good agent, Malachi a partner, Tali, oh sweet Tali, had lost her sister and did not even know it. Hadar, always having been fond of Ziva, felt heavy around the heart. But Eli had lost his child, his little yelda, and despite their differences he sure loved her.

"Do you wish to be alone?"

"Ken. Toda, Hadar."

Death was a constant companion in this world they lived in. It took the people as if they were figures in a game, randomly, at the throw of dice, leaving all but a terrible void. Sometimes they got lucky and the stolen life was not a friend. But the odds were in nobody's favor these days. The image of Ziva dying alone in the desert, likely terrified and feeling as though the world had forgotten about her sent a shiver up Hadar's spine. Ziva's face was that of Tali, _his_ Tali. And the image cut a little too close to the heart and so he reached for his phone.

It rang twice. Then, "Shalom, Aba."

The sound of her voice, chipper and _alive _relieved him. He leaned over the railing, looking across the headquarters' country yard, his face in his hand, his eyes glazed over from the bitter loss they had suffered today.

"Shalom, yafa sheli. How are you?" Hadar would not admit it, but within his heart he grew awfully sentimental. For someone who had never believed himself a family man he had become unspeakably attached to this stubborn head of wild curls. The thought of losing her like Eli had lost Ziva twisted his stomach into knots and the image of Tali dying in the desert would not leave his mind. He sighed, knowing that he was being unreasonable.

"What is wrong?" Tali demanded.

He chuckled at her no-nonsense attitude. She knew him too well. "What makes you think that something is wrong?"

"You should know that you cannot lie to me."

"I just wanted to make sure we are still on for tonight."

"Seven o'clock, at Vaniglia. I will be there."

_**Tel Aviv, spring 2004 (flashback)**_

"I am going to be honest, Tali, I do not like him."

She glanced up from where she was currently painting her toe nails and sighed, "You do not like any of the boys I bring home." This was true, and upon realizing this he shifted uncomfortably on his feet. Tali gave him a knowing smile and returned to the task at hand. "I will be fine, and should he break my heart, you have my permission to shoot him."

Hadar chuckled, "You have hereby made yourself the initiator of this crime."

Tali swung her freshly painted feet off the bed and pushed herself into standing. Carefully, as not to ruin her masterpiece, she hobbled over to where her father stood in the doorway. "That is a risk I am willing to take," she promised before holding up two very slightly different colored high heels. "Which ones?" Tali asked as if she believed he knew anything of fashion.

Hadar shook his head and smiled, "I do not care, as long as you are down in five." He kissed her head and then left to let her finish getting ready. He almost felt like a real father, slightly ridiculous too at having to bring Tali to _prom _out of all things, but he did not mind it very much when she came down the stairs five minutes later with a smile so bright he was sure it could light up the world like the sun. Hadar felt a swell of pride in his chest that he knew he was not entitled to, for she was not really his child. And he was not really her father. And this was a lie; a terrible, awful, unforgivable lie.

"How do I look?"

Tali stood before him, seeking the approval of the man she had come to know and love as her Aba and his worries drifted. He no longer cared about the consequences that would await him should the truth ever come out. He embraced her and kissed the top of her head, "You look beautiful, Taleh."

She called half an hour after he had dropped her off at the venue, teary, heartbroken, absolutely devastated. His gun itched to indeed come after the boy who had dared to hurt her, but instead reasoned that this was part of the teenage life. He had gone through it himself some twenty-five years ago. He pushed open the passenger door from the inside and she collapsed in the seat, clinging to her shoes, too embarrassed to meet his eyes.

Hadar strained himself not to lecture her in an 'I told you so,'manner and instead took a violent u-turn and accelerated towards downtown. Tali glanced over at him, confused, "Where are we going?"

"Vaniglia," he announced.

"Aba, I do not want ice cream."

"You always want ice cream."

This was true. Although inside of the car she doubted she could force down even a spoonful, once they stood inside of the parlor her mouth began to water at the sight of her favorite iced smoothie. Hadar ordered for them while she curled up in a seat by the window, sighing every once in a while as to relieve the pressure that she felt inside of her heart.

"Why boys if you can have this," Hadar tried, hoping to cheer her up with a cup of her favorite berry mango madness.

_**Horn of Africa, summer 2009 (present day)**_

It has been eleven weeks altogether; Ziva counted the days with meticulous care when she was too exhausted to stand on her feet, when they trampled her, when they took her, when they cut her skin. She would count the minutes, the seconds even; one, two, three, until it was over, until the searing pain of fire ceased, until they dropped her limp body into the dust, until they withdrew from her only for another one to straddle her, four, five, six, seven men.

She had a lot of making up to do, she mused in a moment of silence. Eleven weeks, day in, day out, she had suffered pain she had never known existed. And they were not done. She was not done; not done making up for her sins. They dragged her outside. For the first time she was able to breathe air that had not before passed through thirty filthy lungs. It was not a gift, however, but another form of punishment. She withered away in the sun for eight, nine, ten hours.

Ziva would not tell them, would not betray her family like they had betrayed her. She would spew the ugly truth about her father willingly, but they did not ask about Eli David. They asked about America, _'Who is this Gibbs, and why would you die for him?' _They did not understand. Nobody understood the connection she had with the man even after he abandoned her and left her in Israel. He had been right to do so; she knew that now.

But none of this mattered anymore. She would be dead soon.

She spat into his face when he took her that night. She spat blood and sweat and dirt. She spat so hard Saleem Ulman recoiled. He was angry. She could see it in his eyes as he wiped his face. He beat her with his boots. He kicked her and dragged her across the concrete, bare skin scraping at glass and rocks, and then he left her.

For three days she saw no one.

Starvation was, if there could be such a thing, her favorite form of torture. They would leave her alone for hours, days sometimes. And Ziva counted, ten, eleven, twelve. She huddled up in the corner to keep warm or perhaps to hide herself from the prying eyes of the men that peeked inside of the room to make sure that she was still breathing. Her life seemed still a priority, and she wished it wasn't.

Ziva was ready to go.

She waited, waited very patiently for the perfect moment in which she was conveniently aligned, in which Saleem found himself distracted, in which she could throw herself upon his knife to end this, her torture, her life. But that moment never came.

They brought her into their favorite room. It was bright, but otherwise not any different from the rest of the compound. Perhaps it was slightly larger which would make it easier for them to throw her around. Ziva wondered if perhaps they had mercy after all; perhaps they would end it today. They sat her down and pulled the hood from her head and what she saw was not what she had expected.

"Out of everyone in the world who could have found me, it had to be you?"

_**Tel Aviv, fall 2009 (present day)**_

"Would you please explain to me why I cannot do this mission?" Tali demanded. She stood in the Director's office, with her arms crossed over her chest and her tongue a little too free. They were not pleased, but that was exactly where she wanted them. She wanted them on edge and frustrated with her; she wanted to make them angry.

Anger made people reckless.

"The mission is long, Tali, six months at least. And it requires a subtle political approach," Hadar tried.

"So you decide to send _Malachi,_" as if he was any more subtle than her, as if he did not prefer the gun over a confrontation, as if he was the right man for this job. Tali shot him an apologetic glance; she did not mean to deter him, to insult his abilities, but she _needed _to do this mission. She wanted to prove herself, and any way to convince Director David and Officer Hadar that she was the right for the job was a good one.

The men knew they could not win. Tali was far too stubborn to budge, far too insistent to let them sway her from her objective. If they did not send her to Washington she would take herself there and both Eli and Hadar knew it was wiser to keep her busy, especially when an unfortunate chance-encounter was imminent. They exchanged a glance and Tali knew she had triumphed. She was pleased with herself but the satisfaction did not read on her face; after all, a lady never tells.

"You and Malachi will be leaving tomorrow morning," Director David announced. "Now go."

Tali nodded her thanks, showing the respect she was sure they had forgotten she had for them and strode out of the office with Malachi in tow. Inside of the elevator she let out her breath, "I did not mean what I said in there," she proclaimed, cleansing her conscious. She liked Malachi and would put her life in his hands without a second thought. She did not doubt his capabilities, but, "I just need to go to Washington."

Malachi did not ask why, but he was able to make an educated guess regarding Director David's reluctance to send her.

Inside of his office Eli slumped into his chair, exhausted. Dealing with Tali usually required a certain amount of energy that neither he nor Hadar could afford to spare these days. "It is good to see that some things never change," Eli chuckled, trying to make light of the situation and referring to Tali's inextinguishable fire. "I could use a cup of coffee."

Hadar was not amused. He could feel it; the end of their scheme. The foundation upon which they had built Tali's new life trembled under the weight of their lies. He knew his worry was unwarranted, premature at the very least, but as the father he had become he knew he had to protect her, protect Tali. "We will have to keep her busy, Eli. We can not allow her to accidentally wander into NCIS."

"Malachi will keep her distracted. Do not worry, my friend."

Hadar nodded, pleased. He had initially feared that in his grief for Ziva Eli would take back what was rightfully his, that he would take Tali out of the life that she knew and bear the truth to her as if he believed it would make his sins undone and give him back a daughter. It satisfied him that Eli seemed to have no intentions of calling off their scheme, that he was bent on continuing as they had before. Nothing would change, and for this Hadar was thankful.

"Have you spoken to Ziva?"

"I have not," Eli sighed and his eyes settled upon the opened email on his computer, _'Dear Aba, please consider this my official resignation.'_

_**Washington, fall 2009 (present day)**_

The city began to change with September. The temperatures dropped and the sky reflected more of what she felt inside. Rain was falling almost every day now, and for a change Ziva decided that she would enjoy the damp and drizzly months of the year. Her skin still burned from the desert, sizzled in the face of her nightmares and the Washington air promised a cool, sort of calming effect that she would allow herself to indulge in.

Not everything changed, however. It has been four weeks and she longed to go with them. It was a terrible, terrible feeling to watch them leave without her. "Got a dead Marine, grab your gear!" The routine was familiar, _too_ familiar even after three months in the desert. The impulse was in her still. It came as naturally as breathing. Her hands itched to reach for her backpack, to tie her hair in a knot, to wiggle into her jacket and to call shotgun before anyone else had a chance to do it.

But she was tied to her desk, on phone duty, forced to mind the files and incident reports and the occasional cold case. She tasked herself with copying a hundred pages when she had nothing else to do. Ziva felt useless, no more important than an intern, but despite the nagging feeling inside of her stomach she relished in the familiar office routine. It was soothing, oddly comforting, and she knew that if she was stuck inside of this building for the rest of her life, battling the copy machine and buying coffee, she would not mind. She would pick this over the desert any day.

At least she was home.

The case was quickly solved and by mid-afternoon the team was already writing their final reports. If only every criminal was as easily caught, Ziva mused. Her eyes wandered first to Gibbs then to McGee and finally settled upon Tony. Her chest surged with a strange contentment.

She belonged here.

"I will buy coffee," she announced, deciding that she could make herself useful while the team worked. This was only temporary, she thought as she braced herself against the cold September weather. Soon she would be one of them again; _really _one of them.

The coffee shop had hardly changed. The people went in, out, as if they had not a care in the world, as if they did not know that she had spent the last three months in the desert, had been in every way dehumanized, as if they knew not of such cruelties. They didn't, Ziva realized and it inspired in her a peculiar feeling. Nobody knew of the scars that she wore under her clothes; nobody knew of her dreams. She was like them; unassuming, a model citizen as she patiently waited in line. It was refreshing.

It was a normality Ziva had longed for, had almost forgotten existed.

She remembered the last time she was here. It was in the spring, before everything happened, before the desert, before Saleem. Her eyes fell upon the spot where she had seen _her _at what felt like a lifetime ago. But the image was vague, her mind unable to grasp the memory of the woman that had so closely resembled her sister, and by the time it was her turn she had already forgotten about her.

"I'll have one berry mango madness, please. And three large coffees, black." The words rolled off her tongue easily. They were engrained into her mind forever, never to be forgotten. Ziva patiently waited for her order, muttering a soft, "Thank you," once it was done and moved away.

She tumbled in, her eyes downcast, her head hooded by a vividly colored rain coat, her hands firmly grasping the tablet as she tried to make out the new orders through smeared raindrops and an obnoxious fluorescent flare. She did not look up, her eyes unwavering until it was her turn in line, "I will have what she had," Tali said, gesturing vaguely into the direction of the woman that had just left, "minus two coffees."

"So, one berry mango madness and a large black coffee?"

Tali frowned, "Is that not what I just said?"

The barista's attempt at flirting went completely past her, and she again minded the file that had just been transferred to her until the order was ready. She shook her head and huffed and puffed at the ridiculousness of it, "Stay back and observe; what a joke!"

Malachi noticed her distress when she met him on the second level of the coffee shop. He glanced at her, mildly amused by her red cheeks and the frown that she wore. "You have read the orders," he noted.

"Stay back and observe; what does that even mean?"

"It means, Tali, we get to enjoy ourselves for a change."


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: I understand this has been somewhat difficult to follow because of the many time-jumps, but from now on we will stay within the same present. (No more skipping weeks and months.) There will only be distinguished flashbacks. Thank you everyone for bearing with me and I hope you continue to enjoy this little tale as much as I am!  
__Disclaimer: I do not own NCIS and I am in no way affiliated with the show and/or its creators.  
__Content warning: It gets a little steamy near the end, so please read responsibly._

**Chapter 4**

_**Washington, fall 2009 (present day)**_

She had sworn to enjoy herself, to allow the cold autumn air to soothe her still burning skin, to make friends with her demons, to smile more often. She had sworn to recover. She had the potential to recover, they promised. Ducky especially emphasized this every time she visited him in autopsy, or when she shared a cup of tea with him in the week after his mother's passing.

Tony made certain to treat her as he always had. Their light hearted banter made her smile, sometimes laugh. It made her forget about the demons she had not yet dared to confront, the past she wished to erase, the marks that littered her body, the lack of something golden and six pointed at her neck. It made her forget all about her terrors and inspired her to draw another breath, _just one more._

The cases helped to distract her. They gave her something to put her mind to, something to focus on. She happily read and wrote and copied a hundred reports, and even dug through one or another dumpster in pursuit of evidence. She dealt with difficult suspects and lent Abby a hand in the lab. She ran out for coffee took every phone call. She indulged in the familiar office routine and the repetitive comforts it entailed.

Ziva glanced at McGee. He was deep in thought and work, focused on the file in front of him. From where she stood on top of the stairs she saw that one of his computers had switched to the screen-saver. There traveled the accidental and sometimes intentional photographs from crime scenes, most of them embarrassing, awkward in position or expression, or otherwise unflattering. There were images of his sister. Ziva recognized her now. She wondered how Sarah was doing.

Her heart fluttered when she realized that he had _still _not deleted the photos Tony had taken of her in Los Angeles. Somehow they had ended up in his album, _this _album that played on McGee's screen every now and then. Ziva shuddered at the thought of who else might have seen her this way. At any other time she would have become angry. She would have found something, _anything_, to throw at him - a file, a paperclip, her knife. She would have yelled at him and threatened him with something silly.

'_Admit it, and I will spare you one of your eyes!'_

Today she only felt sad.

Her body had been untainted then, only graced by the secret tattoo on her side, the tattoo that was now an unrecognizable blob of ink, sunburned, tortured. Her body had been attractive then, something she enjoyed flaunting, something she was proud of. These images served as an unwelcome reminder of how maimed she was, how broken, oh so far from who she had once been, even further from who she wanted to become.

Ziva swallowed and drew back.

McGee did not see her as she slipped by the squad room and further down the hall until she was alone. A lump had formed in her throat and her eyes burned. A pathetic sound left her lips as she battled against the sudden swell of emotions. It was in moments like these when she wished for the gentle hands of her mother, the sweet embrace of her sister, Aunt Nettie's comic band-aids, or even her father's matter-of-fact tone, _'We do not cry, Zivaleh.'_

She longed for something familiar.

_**Tel Aviv, winter 2001 (flashback)**_

"I missed you!" Tali's arms came around her sister and Ziva indulged in the sweet scent of her hair, the lingering taste of sun and sand and berry mango madness. She ignored her pain, the throbbing behind every bruise, every cut, the way her bones ached and her head hammered. Before long, these discomforts would fade, for Tali possessed a naturally remedying touch.

"I missed you too, Taleh."

Tali began to stroke Ziva's hair, knowing just how much they needed this moment of reconnection. She began to work through her sister's tangled and bloodstained curls, tugging at them gently, feeling just how much Ziva has been through this last week, a knot for every punch she had taken. Tali's heart ached.

"Let me take care of you," she whispered and pulled away. She looked into Ziva's dark eyes and was met with a familiar resistance and weak promises of _'I am all right.' _Tali watched, resigned, as her sister picked up the bag she had previously dropped and with a quick kiss on the cheek disappeared into her room at the end of the hall.

She decided to give Ziva a couple of moments to collect herself, to hide all that she wanted nobody to see, all that no one was supposed to know before approaching her again, before trying again. Meanwhile Tali poured her sister a glass of water and listened to the frustrated huffs and puffs that echoed throughout the apartment. Ziva was not here often enough to know just how sound traveled, that a whisper in the bedroom could be heard in the kitchen, that when you tilted your head at just the right angle a chat could be had with the apartment above, and that a conversation was only private when it was whispered underneath blankets at night.

When Ziva began to swear, Tali decided she had enough time.

"Language," she warned meaningfully as she arrived at her sister's door. Ziva had taken off her jacket and was now struggling to untie her boots. The source of frustration was a tight double knot and fingers that had thrown too many punches. Tali bit back any sarcastic remark and sauntered into Ziva's room. "Here," she said almost too casually at the sight of Ziva's bruised body and gave her the glass of cool water instead. "Sit and drink."

Ziva sat and drank and did not complain as Tali went to her knees and untied the boots with coordinated ease. The routine that followed was familiar, a push and pull of resistance and resignation, of refusal and acceptance, of tears and shame thereof.

"You should not let him do this to you," Tali murmured as she continued to help Ziva out of her clothes. A bruise was revealed for every inch they uncovered, a cut, a mark of suffering. A gentle finger traveled over a particularly nasty gush at Ziva's knee and Tali sighed, feeling sad for all her sister had to endure at their father's orders. "He will kill you one day."

Ziva did not respond and let herself be manipulated into the shower. Tali took to the open wounds first, then to the bruises, then to everything invisible to the eye: Ziva's sorrow, her fragmented pride, the guilt, the longing for a life without bloodshed, without responsibility, perhaps even a life without their father.

Later they found themselves underneath Ziva's blanket, huddled up in a comforting heap, informing each other of all that has happened in the time they were apart.

"I missed you most of all," Ziva confessed.

"I will always be here," Tali promised.

_**Washington (present day)**_

She tumbled in through the door, frustrated, furious, bloodstained. She kicked off her shoes first, flinging them nowhere in particular. This startled Malachi away from his computer, away from his orders, and he watched with mild concern as she went about the business of undressing. Under her breath she swore, cursed, seethed blasphemy. Once every ungodly word in their language was uttered, he interjected, "Whose blood is this?"

"Petty Officer Hawthorne's," she said. Tali took a good look at the dress she had worn and ultimately tossed it away when she realized that she would never wear it again. Although she tried to appear unfazed, Malachi recognized the trouble in her eyes, the panic. The truth was always in Tali's eyes. She did not take murder lightly, and so he concluded that if Petty Officer Hawthorne was dead, he had a reason to be so.

"What happened?"

Tali was now frantically going through her bag, searching for anything she might wear, anything that was clean, anything that was not stained with the blood of someone who was no longer alive. Her emotions were tangible in the air. They vibrated, they throbbed, they wrapped around her like a shroud of darkness. Malachi recognized this, for he too was familiar with the fear, the guilt, the weight of having taken someone's life. He stepped into her space and took her by the shoulders, "Tali," he whispered. "Tell me what happened."

Her face twisted and she looked away. He took this moment to look down on her. The blood had soaked through her dress and stained her skin an odd, bruise-like color. If she was injured, he could not tell her pains away from the blood that pooled in the dimples of her hips, her belly button, the patch of scared skin that spread over her left ribcage, disappearing briefly underneath the fabric of her undergarments, before continuing down her thigh. Malachi knew what had happened there; knew the truth, unlike Tali herself who believed her scars stemmed from an especially disastrous road accident.

He took her chin in his hand when she did not look back at him, when she stared at the patterned wall and probably saw the blood of Petty Officer Hawthorne instead of the intricate poppies printed there, when she again lost herself in thought of the terrible crime she had committed. "Talk to me," he coaxed, hoping to move Tali to give up her secrets.

She took in her breath and shook her head free of Malachi's hand. "I blew my cover," Tali confessed, seemingly at loss. They had never before seen Petty Officer Hawthorne or anyone that was a part of his questionable business. They had followed the smell of gun powder across the sea, unsure of where it would lead. Their order was to stay back and observe, to collect the evidence necessary to bust them, to not take action. No one could have predicted this unfortunate turn of events.

"How?" Malachi breathed.

"I do not know!" Tali exclaimed and pulled away from him. "He followed me out of the bar and came on to me. I had no choice, Malachi!"

He caught her again, his hands around hers, shaking her out of this frantic frenzy. "Calm down," he urged. "I will call your father, tell him what happened. We will figure this out, Tali." Malachi tucked a stubborn curl behind her ear and nodded into the direction of the bathroom. "Shower," he ordered gently.

Tali nodded numbly and grabbed a fresh set of clothes from the bed. Once he heard the door fall shut and the sound of water running, Malachi sunk into his chair. Tali's panic was infectious, and so he picked up the phone with shaky fingers.

"We have a situation," he said darkly.

—

They saw the footage on a Monday.

Tony hated Mondays.

He stood uncomfortably on his two feet. His heart pounded not with fear but anxiety, an inexplicable sensation that when voiced would sound something like _'what the hell?' _But Tony said nothing. Instead, he continued to stare at the paused image of a surveillance video. Gibbs, too, was silent. But there was a subtle something in his grey eyes, a glint of some kind. It was evidence of his suspicion, his doubt most of all.

To everyone else in the room the image was obvious, the case closed. Abby seemed entirely resigned to the fact that her beloved science had come to bite her in the arse. She muttered something about cheating in a game of poker with the nuns. This was karma, she swore, before shrinking back into Gibbs' chair.

"There has to be an explanation for this, certainly," Ducky reasoned from where he stood behind the office barrier. "She felt threatened. Her response is reasonable."

Tony shook his head. "I drove her home last night."

"How do you know she _stayed_, Special Agent DiNozzo?" This was Director Vance. He regarded the rest of the team briefly as he strode into the squad room before he, too, turned to inspect at the grainy image on the plasma screen.

A remark burned at the tip of his tongue, but Tony swallowed any comment that would pronounce his blatant disrespect for the man in the light of the situation and his audacious idea that Ziva could have actually done this. He opted for a simple, "I know her."

"I am afraid that won't be enough, Agent DiNozzo."

The two men continued to stare at each other, a battle between logic and emotion, a mind for the agency and a heart for a woman. A memory reared its head inside Tony: _'I'm the guy who looks at the reality in front of him and refuses to accept it.'_ He smiled sickly.

What they had in front of them was undeniable: Ziva, in a short dress, standing above their most recent victim after she shot him in a struggle. Ducky was right; Ziva's response was plausible, warranted, understandable even. Petty Officer Hawthorne was not a good man and perhaps had brought his fate upon himself. But there was so much about this image that did not make sense. Tony knew this to be true, for he had seen her. Ziva flinched when he brushed by her, started at every unexpected sound, and cried in empty hallways.

Ziva didn't think anyone had seen her, but he had. Her cries were like a siren call; Tony had no choice but to follow.

That Ziva – the new Ziva – would not visit a bar in her state, would probably shudder at the thought of it and muster a questionable excuse. The Ziva he had brought home last night was not _this._

Gibbs seemed to share the sentiment. "McGee, any luck?"

"She's not answering," McGee said apologetically, as if it was somehow his fault that he could not reach Ziva over the phone.

"Get me a fix."

A minute passed. A frown etched itself onto McGee's features.

"What, McGee?"

"Boss, according to this Ziva is—"

"Here!"

Everybody in the squad room turned to the extraordinarily chipper voice. Ziva was out of breath, a little flustered, but a smile played on her usually tight lips. "It is quite a walk from my new apartment," she confessed, explaining her lateness. It was only when Ziva was met with silence that she looked up and found six sets of eyes staring at her. "What is going on?"

—

Tali did not know about them; the orders that loomed on his desktop, the orders that differed from hers, the treachery he was about to commit, the betrayal against his friends, the crime that was his silence. He glanced at her from across the hotel room. She sat by the window, her eyes cast down, focused on cleaning her weapon. She had this in common with her sister, Malachi observed. Ziva had often retreated into a far corner of the Damocles for the simple chore of cleaning her gun. She too sat for hours, running her fingers along the deadly metal. He used to tease her for it, but she insisted it calmed her. When he asked Tali why she had taken up this habit, she told him the same thing.

They were frighteningly alike; Tali and the Ziva he remembered from so many years ago; before the Damocles, before America even. They shared the same curl of hair, the same seductive gait that Malachi was usually taken by, a habit of going head-first into any assignment, a refreshing sense of humor. It was only upon spending a significant amount of time with the sisters that he was able to list their differences. Ziva was of explosive nature, impulsive, while Tali preferred a strategic approach. Tali could appreciate a kind word. Ziva did not trust by default. Ziva was at all times guarded, whereas Tali was not ashamed for her tears. Ziva took an order without complaint, while Tali challenged, questioned unabashedly. Tali was of extraverted temperament; Ziva liked to keep to herself.

In all the years they had known each other, Malachi mused, he hadn't learned very much about Ziva at all. She was not a sharer, and perhaps this was what had made her so exciting to him in the past. She was like a ghost, there but not. She lived for her service, and so it had always seemed to him as though she ceased to exist when she stepped out of her uniform. He never heard her speak of family, never seen her with anybody but the people of their command.

This notion had changed in his mind on the day Ziva was bare in front and then underneath him. From that moment onwards she was no longer a ghost, but a human of flesh and blood, easily hurt.

It made what he was about to do a lot harder.

"I am meeting an old friend," he said as he closed his laptop and reached for his coat. "I'll be back in a few hours."

Tali did not look up, "L'hitraot."

_**Northern Israel, summer 2000 (flashback)**_

The nights were long, the days longer. In the desert time passed differently, slower. Hours were spent playing cards, singing when he brought his guitar, or playing the occasional round of I spy with my little eye. He sighed when she suggested it, knowing that he could not win. They sat in a field of poppies and Ziva spotted something red.

"Is it a flower?" Malachi rolled his eyes.

"Ken," she said and bit her lip not to smile.

"Is it _this _flower?" He asked, pointing haphazardly to the one that was closest to them.

"Lo," she smirked, and he began to point out random plants around them until they became bored.

It was a way to pass time. They accepted this as their only leisure activity when their orders were to sit and watch on the hillside. But it was not always like this. Sometimes they walked for days and nights, and sometimes they played soccer with the local children. Sometimes they rode in the back of a truck and made fun of each other when a bump in the road made one of them hit their head on the roof.

"I am so glad that was not me," he laughed as she rubbed her head and shot him a glare.

And then there were times when it was only the two of them coming back to the barracks, or driving the weapons carrier from Haifa to Tel Aviv one terrible summer night. Inside of the truck they were melting, and this resulted in the shedding of uniforms and combat boots. The heat clouded their minds. Their conversations became unfiltered and candid and soon they talked about things they would not normally talk about; things that would make their fathers shake their heads in disapproval, their mothers launch into lectures about consequences and sin, their younger siblings squeal something like _'you will get cooties!' _

But they did not care about cooties or consequences when they pulled over for a bathroom break and somehow found themselves naked, sweaty and tangled up in each other's limbs in the back of the carrier. "This was not how I imagined my first time," she mused as she lay below him.

He glanced down at her, quirking an eyebrow, "Are you complaining?"

Ziva considered this, taking pleasure in the way he became increasingly offended and insecure. She laughed then, shook her head, kissed him and said, "I would never," before she flipped them.

She liked being on top.

They came together often after that night. There was an excitement shared between them, an exploratory desire, an attraction. It was a game, nothing more. Respectively, they knew they would one day meet someone that was right for them. They were learning each other and themselves for this future partner. And she was all right with this, Ziva thought to herself one night when they collapsed in the backseat of his private vehicle after a heated session of stroking, touching and kissing.

This was not permanent.

It ended one month later when Malachi met a girl named Rachel. He swore it was love and Ziva believed him. She kissed him one last time, a thank you, and left.


	5. Chapter 5

_A/N: A special thanks to Allison (mon-petit-pois), Tatiana (born30) and Dana (dove-cotes) for their elaborate, encouraging and endlessly inspiring reviews. I appreciate your feedback more than I can say! Thanks also to everybody else who takes the time to leave me their thoughts and speculations. I hope this next chapter does not disappoint!_  
_Content warning: Please read with caution!_

**Chapter 5**

_**Washington, fall 2009 (present time)**_

"We met him yesterday," Ziva said, "Tony—Agent DiNozzo and I interviewed him last night."

Director Vance knew this. He had read the file, been briefed by Gibbs, had spoken to every member of the team before he came to see her in the interrogation room. This was a game. And Ziva hated games.

"What was the reason?"

She looked away from Vance's disbelieving eyes. He had a way of making any person feel insecure, under scrutiny, in danger. The fact that he could very easily end her engagement with the agency frightened her all the more. With a snap of his fingers she could find herself unemployed. Not that she would let any of her fears show. Ziva's expression was hard. "We believe he was involved in illegal dealings, trades. He fell for our trap. We had him, we—"

"Let him go?"

"Yes." Ziva ran a disgruntled hand through her hair and leaned back in the chair. She caught her reflection in the mirror and shuddered inwardly. Her complexion was pale, her eyes dark. In them she saw her demons reflected, a raging ocean of fear and confusion. Of terror. "We let him go in hopes he would lead us to his partner. Petty Officer Hawthorne did not have the means or the connections _or _the brains to pull off something like this."

"You followed him?"

"No. Agent McGee and Agent Gibbs followed him. I went home."

"Agent DiNozzo said he drove you."

"Yes."

"What did you do after he left?"

This was a seemingly innocent question, one that the pre-desert Ziva would have easily answered. The new Ziva, however, had reason to feel embarrassed and secretive about her nightly habits and struggled with the truth. She swallowed, "I did not go to a bar, if that is what you are asking."

"I asked what you did after Agent DiNozzo left."

She had eaten cold leftovers, for she couldn't have been bothered cook or to even pick up the phone and order in. She had downed more wine than she should have and tossed and turned for most of the night in a restless slumber. Once the wine had gone to her head and sleep finally claimed her in the early hours of morning, she did not even hear the alarm. This had been the real reason for her lateness this morning, and upon second thought, Ziva decided that she should have stayed home. She had been feeling sick since last night anyway.

But she was not going to admit that she struggled to anyone, especially not to Director Vance, and so, "I watched a movie and fell asleep early."

There was a moment of inexplicable silence. His eyes bore into her, dissecting her lie with a knife so sharp she did not even feel its cut. Ducky would have been impressed with this kind of handiwork, she mused silently. Perhaps he was, Ziva considered as her eyes drifted to where he would stand if he were in observation.

"Then how do you explain this?" Over the table Director Vance pushed the printed image of the security footage. Ziva stared at the woman portrayed. They shared the same features and the same posture. But Ziva recognized nothing else about her. The time-stamp dated the incident at exactly eleven thirty-one last night, a time when Ziva was certain she had been at home. Frankly, she remembered the moment precisely, for something had compelled her to look at the clock at this very minute. It was the moment the anxiety had seized her; anxiety that sat with her since.

As if she was possessed by the worry of someone else.

But Ziva had no explanation.

—

The air in the squad room was tense, heavy. It weighed on their shoulders like lead; a stifling feeling. The men's eyes drifted to Ziva's empty desk occasionally. They were worried, confused, scared for their partner. Nothing about her appearance this morning had suggested distress or the aftershocks of having committed murder; only the natural strain of a sleepless night that everybody in the room knew all too well.

She had even smiled, Tony remembered.

A smile that was most certainly gone.

Gibbs pushed himself out of his chair, squinting for perhaps the seventh time since Vance had taken Ziva into interrogation at the grainy image on the plasma screen. He took a step forward, a step back, a step sideways as if he believed a change of perspective would reveal the truth to them, a different truth; a truth that would not make Ziva a murderer – a murderer in self-defense, but a murderer nonetheless.

McGee and Tony exchanged a look but dared to say nothing. They shared Gibbs' doubt, but how would they prove it? The case was closed in Vance's mind, in the mind of everybody that did not know Ziva personally or how she had changed in the last couple of months. She was no longer the assassin they had all come to know.

"Go back to the crime scene," Gibbs ordered then, "Find me something, _anything_."

By the time Tony responded, "Like what?" Gibbs was already gone, headed for the elevator, leaving his agents with only confusion and vague orders.

The air in autopsy was not any different than the air upstairs. It was cooler, if also slightly pungent. The stench of formaldehyde made his eyes burn. The fluorescent lights itched on his skin. It was enough to drive him distracted, if only momentarily, but the seed of doubt in his mind remained and would only grow with every contradicting detail his colleagues supplied.

"What do you got, Duck?"

"Oh, how is she doing, Jethro?" Ducky asked. "She must be terrified. Have you spoken to her?" The doctor took off his gloves and stepped around the table, revealing behind him the open-chested Petty Officer. It was a sickening sight all by itself, but in light of the situation and in combination with whatever indefinable chemical hovered in the air, Gibbs' felt queasy in his stomach.

He clenched his jaw, "Duck."

Normally the doctor would take no offence in Gibbs' curt and hurried attitude. It was familiar, and while usually disheartening not otherwise noteworthy. But this was no ordinary matter. This was about Ziva. Still, Ducky swallowed his pride and continued, "Very well." He reached for the preliminary report and scanned his notes briefly before gesturing for Gibbs to step closer and take a look at the dead officer. "He was highly intoxicated. I am surprised he was able to stand at all, not to mention fight. His knuckles were severely bruised, some fractured…"

"Meaning?"

"Meaning our Petty Officer liked to take out his anger on other people."

"Bullet?"

"I sent it up to Abby. Jethro," Ducky insisted, "How is she?"

Gibbs sighed, "She's scared."

In truth, he had not seen her since Vance had taken her away, but Ducky did not need to know this.

"Gibbs, Gibbs, Gibbs, Gibbs, Gibbs," Abby chimed excitedly when he arrived in the lab not many minutes later. Her bright attitude was a stark contrast to the collective gloom which had overtaken the office this morning. "They don't match! They don't match." She hit a few buttons on the computer and two microscopic images of bullets came up on the screen. "See, they do not match! The bullet was not fired from Ziva's gun."

This, Gibbs decided as he pecked her temple, was good news at last.

—

Worried. She was worried and had been ever since the reality of what she had done sank in. The room felt crowded, full of ghosts. It was a nauseating feeling, one that weighed on her until she found herself seated on the filthy hotel room floor. She stared at the wall apathetically, counting the many poppies printed there; one for each life she had taken.

Tali remembered their names. She kept a list of her victims in the back of her journal. It was a terrifying variety of names. An _x_ was scribbled next to those who she believed had deserved to die; murderers, rapists, smugglers, the worst of them. Collateral damage was marked by a star: men and women who died in the line of fire, some for what they believed in, others who had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Some Tali had not killed herself but felt responsible for regardless; a partner she had not been able to save, a little girl that had hidden herself away in a desert shack, the ghost of a memory which belonged to years out of reach; the only person without a name.

It was a way to keep track of her sins. So should her name ever find itself on a list such as this one, marked by many _x_'s surely, she would know what would await her in the afterlife.

Petty Officer Hawthorne's name was written in shaky calligraphy at the bottom of the last page. He stood alone, for Tali had not yet decided upon the weight of his death. Had she been right to pull the trigger? Had he deserved to die? Had she perhaps even saved lives by taking his? Or had she been too quick to pass judgment, too foolish to think he would not see her in the back of the bar, or too scared, alone, in a dark alley?

Restless in her own skin, Tali pushed herself up and fled the apartment.

She did not know where she was going and why. The streets were unfamiliar and the berry mango madness tasted bitter in her mouth. The people looked at her funny and Tali swore it was because they saw the blood on her hands or smelled the scent of death she gave off, or perhaps they did not look at her at all but the very corpse of Petty Officer Hawthorne which she believed followed her like a shadow.

Tali had no doubt that she was haunted.

And so she took herself to the water, to the seaside bar where she had killed him no more than twenty-four hours ago. Tali knew she would find answers there. And then she would know whether she would mark his name with an _x_, or the vav, the sign of those she had been wrong to kill.

—

The desert had changed her, killed her, made her empty. Blame for this was stretched over many people and many nations, but he was sure a piece of it had fallen upon himself when he allowed her to go forth alone. Malachi still remembered her silhouette as it disappeared into the busy market-crowd, a wave of her hand, a resigning gesture, _a goodbye._ He had dreamed of it often in the days following Ziva's alleged death. He wondered if he could have stopped her; perhaps if he had been more insistent. Guilt plagued him since, and he only rode himself in deeper with every lie that left his mouth.

The first thing he noticed when he looked at her from across the table was that her eyes had become void of the light he used to find in them. There used to be a spark in them, adventure, mischief, a charming vulnerability he had discovered when she first lay beneath him a lifetime ago.

But this Ziva no longer existed. She had died sometime in the years that followed their reckless affair. Tali's death had infected her with a parasite, which in the form of revenge had slowly sucked the blood out of her veins until nothing of her remained but the empty shell of a woman, the ruins of a once mighty temple.

Malachi had kept himself up to date with Ziva's endeavors over the years. He knew that she had been shot on the same day her sister died. And had he looked closer perhaps he would have realized that this was the beginning of a treacherous downward spiral of self-destruction which had ultimately come to an end in the summer of this year.

"Why are you here, Malachi?"

"They think you committed murder."

"What do you think?"

Malachi thought that this was a convenient turn of events. He had fabricated a story on his way to the navy yard, one that would surely convince the Americans that Ziva was spoiled blood, a liability to have. But the fact that she was _already _a suspect of murder played right into his cards. It would be so easy to blame her for the crime Tali had committed and walk away from this mission as if he had never known her, as if she had never been his friend.

But he knew her, and she had been more than a friend. And he had failed her once already and damned he would be if he failed her a second time.

"How the hell did you survive?"

Ziva perked up curiously. Malachi's sudden change of tone and topic did not go past her. "Did my father send you?"

_Yes. _"No."

"Then whyare you here?"

Malachi swallowed, "There is something you should know."

—

She stood on the other side of the road. Her arms were crossed over her chest protectively as she watched the two funny looking agents go about the crime scene. She did not envy them for what they had to do, digging through dumpsters and collecting evidence she was certain would lead nowhere. Tali had been very careful not to leave a trace.

But this did not ease the guilt which had driven her to the bar today, or cleanse her of Hawthorne's blood.

"So, what _exactly _are we looking for, Tony," she heard one of them say. He was slightly rounder than the other, taller from where he stood inside of the dumpster, and obviously displeased with his assigned task. "There is nothing we haven't already sent to the lab. And Ziva was nowhere near this dumpster in the video."

_Ziva? Video?_ Tali straightened.

"It was not Ziva," the other – Tony – insisted. His voice was poisonous despite the casual tone he hoped to convey. He was stressed and it showed in his features. Tali could see it from where she was half hiding behind a tree.

"Then how do you explain it?"

"My gut."

"I'm afraid your gut isn't gonna get Ziva out of this."

"Well," Tony pressed, "Then we better keep searching until we have something that does."

A shiver ran up her spine, the breath of Petty Officer Hawthorne whispering, _'they will get you.'_ Tali took a subtle step back, her eyes not wavering from the crime scene. The pool of blood burned red on the ground, captivating her, holding her hostage. Guilt surged in her chest before it settled heavily in her stomach, making her incapable of moving, running, fleeing the scene even when the shrill sound of her phone startled her out of her hypnosis.

The music echoed in the street like a siren, a warning, making everybody in the vicinity aware of her. Tali could no longer hide. She fumbled for her phone with clumsy fingers as the sound increased in volume with every second she did not answer.

Then, in a flare of panic, "Malachi?"

"Tali, where are you?"

She looked up to the crime scene. There she found herself under the scrutiny of two very perplexed looking agents. They stared at her, frowns etched onto their faces, blatant disbelief in their eyes.

Tali swallowed, "In trouble."

_**Washington, spring 2009 (flashback)**_

He saw her often and everywhere.

He saw her in the window of a bus going down K Street. He saw her in the brunette stripper at the bar he visited to distract himself of her absence. He saw her in the coffee shop by his apartment and in the busy crowd at the supermarket. She passed by his vision with a whoosh of her hair and a giggle. Sometimes Tony swore he heard her voice echo in the vents and sometimes he was convinced something on her desk had moved over night. Sometimes he caught the scent of her coconut shampoo in the air and his stomach turned.

And sometimes, when he could not sleep, he called her.

'_Hi. You have reached the mailbox of Ziva David. Please leave a message and I will call you back.'_

But she never did call.

"Damocles went down in a storm, 28th of May. There were no survivors."

And it was as if Tony himself had drowned that day. The world around him faded, darkened, dulled, as if he went down in a storm too. It was a storm of emotion and sadness and blatant rage, but a storm nonetheless. The weight of his guilt, of his pain, _her _pain, and all the things he would never say to her dragged him to the bottom of the sea, anchoring him to where he imagined he would sleep with her bones forever.

It went like this for many weeks.

Until one day he woke up to not a ripple in the water. The storm had settled over night, leaving him with nothing but a vast emptiness where once a heart has beaten; two hearts, if he was being honest. Apathy took the place of his anger. Indifference took over his mind. He slept when he was not working, worked when he was not sleeping. His life changed and limited itself to his bed and the office.

'_Hi. You have reached the mailbox of Ziva David. Please leave a message and I will call you back.'_

Tony scratched at his stubble and turned over in his bed. The window sill was littered with empty bottles of various alcoholic beverages and old take-out boxes. In his mouth he tasted yesterday's fries and soda turned bitter. His head hammered, his eyes pained in the morning light.

"Ziva, hey, it's… this is Tony." He paused, trying to gather his hung-over thoughts. "I just wanted to hear your voice and, in case you hear this, I, uh…"

He tossed the phone away and decided that he was being foolish. Ziva would not hear him whether he spoke into the receiver or shouted at the heavens. She was dead. His throat burned with regret, with the many words that had died there. They choked him, suffocated him, and he washed them down with the last sip of whiskey before he got himself ready for work.

They saw he did not shave, assumed he drank a little too much in the evenings, knew for certain that something was wrong when he did not as much as look at the more than attractive (in McGee's opinion, anyway) officer inquiring about the job interview. They were worried, but they said nothing.

Tony had to decide for himself when he was done grieving.

It was already summer when he finally put his foot down. "No," he said suddenly, dropping his gear to the ground and walking around his desk to face Gibbs. "We have an obligation."

But it was not the other people he cared about. It was not the obligation which drove him into the desert. It was not honor. It was not duty. These were excuses. It was the simple desire to be as close to her as possible before he, too, went.

He called her again on the morning of his departure.

'_The number you are trying to reach has been disconnected.'_

_**Washington, fall 2009 (present time)**_

Tony could not believe his eyes. He looked at her often, every thirty seconds or so, to make sure that she was still there, in the back of his car. She was a younger, wilder version of the Ziva he knew; a version that took him back many years ago to when she first walked into the office with a seductive swing of her hips and a refreshing no-nonsense attitude. (_'I was just…' 'Having phone sex?'_) He blinked once, twice, a third time. But she was still there, clear as day.

Tali caught him staring at her through the rear mirror. She glared at him meaningfully, a look that sent a cold shiver up his spine, and he averted his attention back to the road.

He did not look at her again until they arrived at the navy yard.

The wait was excruciating, for Ziva most of all. She paced up and down the squad room impatiently, anxiously, wallowing in doubt, disbelief and unspeakable anger at herself for not having made the connection sooner.

It was blatantly obvious now.

As she paced she began to feel the uneven cobblestones underneath her feet. Her memory took her back to Jerusalem two summers ago. She felt the phantom burning in her lungs and the rapid beating of her heart as she maneuvered through locals and tourists in pursuit of a woman whom she had later resigned to only being a figment of her imagination, a token of her grief for a sister whose soul still echoed inside of her.

A sister that would not have waited for her had she given herself up in the desert.

A sister that had been existing next to her all this time.

The reality which had just been presented to her through a short, elaborate Hebrew tale was one too abstract for Ziva to comprehend no matter how often she repeated it in English for her co-workers to understand. Every time she tried to grasp it, it slipped through her fingers like sand; like an elusive dream that drifted further and further away the harder she tried to remember.

Ziva saw her for the third time that afternoon.

She had, in her mind, constructed what she would do, all that she would say to her when they first came face-to-face. But when Tali stepped out of the elevator and their eyes met in an instant, and Ziva even paused to think that maybe – just maybe – blood meant something after all, she found herself strangely unprepared.

Her head spun, as if struck by a blunt object, and she could not find the words even when Tony and McGee brought her into the squad room. Ziva became disoriented to not only her surroundings, but her feelings and expectations too.

There was nothing in Tali's eyes that suggested recognition. Her expression was one of confusion and worry. And so she turned to the only person in the room that she knew, and Ziva's heart sunk over the fact that it was not her but Malachi Tali wanted to talk to first.

"Mal, what is this?"


	6. Chapter 6

_A/N: Does it make sense yet? ;) Thank you for reviews and patience, here is part 6!  
__Content warning: None today, still read carefully please._

**Chapter 6**

_**Washington, fall 2009 (present day)**_

Tali did not startle when Gibbs entered the room, unlike Malachi who jumped visibly in his seat. Her arms were crossed over her chest. She was looking out the window, watching a set of navy officers cross the yard in a hurry. She wondered where they were going.

"Please, have a seat," Gibbs said. Tali turned around, her eyes fixated on the man whose tone reminded her a lot of her father's when he tried to display his authority; an order posed as an offer. Only briefly did she regard Ziva who had entered the room behind Gibbs; a quick glance in her direction; a near tangible electric current when their eyes met sent a shiver up her spine. With her arms still crossed, Tali moved to the chair at the end of the conference table and sat. "Do you know why you're here?" Gibbs asked once he had taken the seat opposite of her.

"You think I killed Petty Officer Hawthorne," Tali said.

Although this was not the first time Ziva heard Tali's voice, she was taken aback by how little it had changed over the years. Tali's accent was thick. The sound of guttural Hebrew consonants took her back to many painful English studies on their living room floor. Her voice was deep, matter-of-fact, and somewhat duller than Ziva remembered. A Puccini song echoed in her head.

"Did you?" Gibbs asked.

"Yes."

Ziva took in a sharp breath. She had not expected such blatant honesty. Her skin began to crawl. Malachi, too, seemed evidently surprised. He glanced at Tali worriedly, his mouth slightly open as though he wanted to say something. He knew how easily Tali was taken by her panic; to hear her confess so indifferently to what she had done last night unsettled him. But then he noticed the strain in her muscles and the way she dug her nails into her thighs underneath the table. She was terrified.

"Why did you kill him?"

Tali glanced at Malachi. He gave her a nod of assurance and she continued, "He followed me out of the bar. He had a gun. He was going to shoot me."

"And why," Gibbs said as he opened the file he had brought with him, "would Petty Officer Hawthorne want to shoot you out of all people?"

"He—" Tali began, but quickly realized that she had no answer. She had been stunned by the sudden interest Hawthorne had taken in her last night, perplexed by many of the things he had said to her in the alley; as if they had met before. Tali had strained her head since, trying to imagine how Hawthorne had known she was onto him; all the while the answer had slumbered in a blanket of secrecy next to her – literally.

"He thought you were me," Ziva said finally.

They looked at each other for a long time; so long everything around them seemed to fall away. Ziva's expression softened; a flicker of emotion passed her eyes. The scene owned a certain element of surrealism; blurred watercolors, dizzy patterns, a sea of memories; like in a dream motion was slowed to an extreme and Ziva was acutely aware of everything that was her sister; the glint in her eyes, the curl of her hair, the lingering scent of berry mango madness and coconut shampoo. It made her afraid to speak, afraid to move too quickly in fear she would jolt herself awake.

Because a dream in which Tali did not recognize her was better than a reality in which she did not exist at all.

Tali took her eyes away at last. "He said things that suggested he knew who I was," she explained to Gibbs, "I think it is very likely that he thought I was," – a pause – "Ziva." The name felt oddly familiar in her mouth. It rolled off of her tongue with practiced ease; muscle memory giving the sound the quality of music. Tali felt startled by this, but she did not let it show.

Gibbs pushed a piece of paper across the table. Tali looked over it briefly. It was already signed; with a squint of her eyes and a sideways tilt of her head she could barely make out the letters of Leroy Jethro Gibbs. What a strange name, she mused. "This is your statement that you killed Petty Officer Hawthorne in self defense; only needs your signature." He held up a pen and Tali raised a doubtful eyebrow at him. Could it really be so easy? "We have it on tape," he added.

_Oh._

Tali took another quick look at Malachi, and then she put her name down in black ink at the bottom of the page before returning the paper to Gibbs.

He appeared startled. "Tali _Hadar_?"

Ziva perked up too. This was not what she had expected; but then again, what _had _she expected? This entire day had been a violent roller coaster of emotions and secrets revealed; she should not feel surprised. There was nothing that suggested Tali even remotely understood who she was, or who Ziva was, or how terribly she had been missed. She blinked, "As in Amit Hadar?"

"You know him?"

"Yes, he," _destroyed my apartment,_ "is an old friend."

"How are you related?" Gibbs asked.

"He is my father."

_**Tel Aviv, spring 2002 (flashback)**_

The first thing she noticed was the beating of her own heart. A gradual _thump-thump_ coaxed her into consciousness. It was a comforting sound, a familiar sound, a sound that held the notion of being alive. The second thing she noticed was the harsh florescent light that burned through her eyelids. She winced instinctively and reached up one hand to cover her eyes. The third thing she noticed was a sharp, searing pain at her side when she moved.

Tali gasped.

The fourth thing she noticed was the sound of footsteps and a foreign voice, _'Nurse! She is awake!' _More footsteps, more voices, _'Check for vitals.' 'Has she said anything?' 'Is she in pain?' _A hand went to her forehead, another pried her eyes open and shone a bright light into them. A third hand took hers and squeezed it tightly. Tali wanted to shake them all off. _'Al tiga bi,' _she wanted to say, _'Do not touch me!' _But as she tried all that left her mouth was a pathetic whimper. She blinked against three unfamiliar faces, their coats blending into the blinding whiteness of the room. Her head ached. Her pulse throbbed in her bones. She felt bruised and vulnerable.

"Do you know where you are?" a female voice said. "Can you remember what happened?"

_Sensations._ Tali remembered sensations. She remembered giggly giddiness and girlish excitement. She remembered a disembodied voice, _'Tosco at Masada, ken? Have you bought the tickets yet?'_ She remembered the sudden feeling of dread and a kind of fear that chilled her to the bones. She remembered a rattle or a blast, the sound of metal against metal, the shattering of glass into a million pieces, the sound of a baby crying, people screaming. An alarm went off and sirens sounded.

She remembered extraordinary pace.

A profound sense of love and comfort, the warm embrace of a figure, a second phantom face, _'It is not your time, motek.'_ This voice still rang in her ears; next to an incessant tinnitus and a rush of blood in her ears it was a familiar but distant sound, a melody that registered somewhere deep within her heart.

But how and why she did not understand.

Tali glanced at the nurse. She had long, wavy hair and glasses that were too large for her small face. She was young. Her cheeks were specked with freckles. Her name tag read Aviva. Tali swore she had known someone named Aviva once; a bubbly girl she stood next to in choir practice. But she had forgotten when that was and where, and the name of the song too.

"Do you know who you are?" Aviva asked routinely, her tone an attempt at gentleness.

The question sent her aching head reeling; thoughts raced, hitting dead-ends. She found no name. No address. No sense of self. Only bones and flesh and a pain that felt like fire.

A shake of her head and a barely audible "Lo," was all Tali had to give.

The nurses looked at each other concerned and the hand which held hers tightly, let go. She felt a breeze of air and caught only the shadow of a man exiting the room.

_**Washington, fall 2009 (present day)**_

"Who came to you after you woke up?"

Tali signed. She felt tired; tired of telling the same story again and again, tired of struggling to find the right words as her vocabulary began to slip, tired because she had not slept in two days. She rolled her neck. "My father. He stayed with me until I was released from the hospital."

"Amit Hadar?"

"Yes."

"What did he tell you happened?" Gibbs' voice droned in her head. His questions repeated themselves in a seemingly endless circle, going round and round, the momentum increasing and decreasing predictably, but with no resolution in sight.

Tali did not have the answers they wanted.

"A truck collided with the bus I was in. It was an, how do you say, _t'unah_—"

"Accident," Malachi and Ziva chorused.

"Ken. He said it was an accident."

"And you believed him?"

"I had no reason not to."

Tali remembered the first time she had opened her eyes to this foreign man. He was as cautious of her as she was of him, as though she was an animal and he was afraid that she would bite. They spoke like strangers for many weeks following the accident; conversations were strained, impersonal, spotty. Never had they spent more than a couple of minutes in the same room together.

But afore long a couple of minutes became an hour, awkward attempts at humor became genuine laughter, a pat on the shoulder became a loving embrace, a kiss on the forehead; Amit became Aba.

Now in possession of the partial truth it was painfully obvious how all had come together, and Tali's heart ached when she remembered the many times she had accepted Hadar's unwillingness to speak about the past as his way of coping with it. He had lost people in his life. Once, when Tali had come down into the living room late at night asking about her mother, he told her that she had passed away many years ago. This explained the lack of recent photographs and any personal item that suggested a woman had ever been a part of his family. They had moved from Be'er Sheva to Tel Aviv shortly after her mother's death to start anew, he'd said.

And there had come a point when she was around seventeen when she had no more questions, and Hadar had no more to say.

Tali had accepted that this was all she would ever know of her past.

But things were different now. The seed of doubt was planted in her mind, and with every new detail that was revealed to her by Malachi and Ziva it grew into the skeleton of a tree on which questions grew like olives. Inside of herself Tali shook like a pile of leaves.

Malachi had surprisingly little to say. He admitted to have known Tali was alive for several years, told them that he had sworn himself to secrecy, that he had followed the orders of Eli David despite his better judgment. He had simply believed that there was more to this scheme than he was told.

"I am very sorry, Tali," he said, but she did not look at him.

Her eyes were distant, unfocused, dwelling somewhere on the surface of the table. Malachi reached out to her, but she took her hand away. "Don't," she said sharply. Malachi withdrew.

"You never suspected anything?" Gibbs asked.

Tali swallowed hard, "No." A telling quiver in her voice was the first sign that her façade was crumbling. Slowly but surely the bricks came down, one by one,_ echad, echad_.

All discomforts Tali felt manifested themselves in much the same way inside of Ziva. She shifted in her seat and resisted the urge to reach out, to take Tali's hand, to stroke her hair as their mother had before she died. The impulse was there. In her palm she felt the texture of dark curls, the warmth of copper skin; the salty taste of kissed-away tears on her lips. Her chest was tight. A lack of oxygen made her head feel woozy. She blinked against the dots and stars that floated in her vision.

"I never had a single doubt," Tali breathed.

She had always been very quick to believe, to take another's words as the truth, to see only the good in people. Ziva had often warned her, _'Question, Taleh. Question everything, especially the words of a loved one. They lie to us the most.'_ It was a fact that had begun with their mother's tales about their father's business and continued with certain manipulative nudges here and there to mold the girls to the favor of Eli David. Soon a habit to bend the truth ran through their family like a bloody thread.

The awakening to any lie was brutal; when the veil was lifted and what used to be a simple, straight-forward life was suddenly a post-apocalyptic wasteland. Ziva could only imagine what Tali was feeling at this moment; realizing not only that she had a sister, but that her entire life had been a lie.

And that she shared no blood with the man she loved as a father.

Ziva, at the very least, had the sixteen years before Tali's death. They were safely tucked away in her heart; memories of orange groves and olive trees, summers spent in Haifa, weekend trips to the mountains, afloat in the Dead Sea. She clung to these images for they were her most prized possessions. Anything could be taken away, but her memories remained even in the darkest of times; even in the desert they had cast a subtle light.

Tali had not even that.

_**Tel Aviv (present day)**_

It was Monday night; the time of week when – if circumstance and location allowed it – they would find themselves at a restaurant of their choosing, usually in downtown or, when they fancied something a little more up-scale, in northern Tel Aviv. The latter was a special treat, reserved for occasions such as birthdays, academic achievements or successfully completed assignments.

("Did I forget your birthday?" Tali asked when he had taken her to their favorite restaurant on Kaufmann Street one evening for no reason at all.

"No," Hadar said and smiled.

"Did I forget _my _birthday?")

As he pondered over his desk sometime after midnight it occurred to him in a kind of bitter dread that washed over his back like cold water that he might never sit down with her again. This fantasy took a peculiar shape in his mind; a dark shadow, a terrible longing for what he had foolishly allowed himself to believe was secure in his fatherly hands.

He knew he was being a tad unreasonable. It was too soon to make these kinds of assumptions. But it was late, and Tali had infected him with a tendency for the dramatics.

"We would have done the same, Eli," Hadar said, "For someone we love."

Eli David had not said a word since Malachi called an hour ago, informing them briefly that the truth had come out. This unexpected turn of events had thrown the head of the agency into a kind of pensive gloom which made him unresponsive to any of Hadar's inquiries and suggestions as to how to handle this situation. He stood by the window in his office, arms crossed over his chest, staring over the nightly skyline of Tel Aviv.

They should have known it would happen sooner rather than later, yesterday rather than tomorrow, in Jerusalem – they had merely been lucky – rather than in Washington. The sisters had always shared an extraordinary bond. Hadar had noticed this as over the years Tali would show signs of distress whenever Ziva's safety was compromised. And she would gravitate towards random locations ("Let's take a trip to London!", "How about we spend Chanukah in Paris?") when Ziva was there. They had underestimated this bond; had underestimated Malachi and his loyalty to the sisters too.

"We have no other option; we must tell them the truth."

"There is always an option, my friend," Eli said at last, uncrossing his arms and turning to walk out of the office. "We will be leaving for Washington tomorrow morning."

_**Washington (present day)**_

The relationship between the sisters was fascinating, especially to Malachi who knew them well as individuals but had never met them together. There was an obvious connection, a vibe that shimmered in the space between them like hot air in the desert. And he was sure on either end of this current the sisters appeared to each other like mirages rather than flesh and blood people.

He watched them quietly as they talked; a back and forth of English and mixed Hebrew, Tali being the one to frequently fall back onto her native tongue. The more agitated she became, the more Hebrew words slipped into her speech. This verbal conversation happened simultaneously to another, subtler kind of interaction; a subconscious exchange of gestures and expressions only an outsider was able to see. Any emotion that passed the expression of one soon found itself in the eyes of the other; any gesture was repeated or mirrored, moments later.

Ziva leaned forward, "He is not a good man," she said. The strained patience in her voice was wearing thin and her words began to take on an increasingly irritated undertone. "He is a liar, Tali. He—"

Tali shook her head and leaned in; a challenge, on the offence. "You do not know him."

"I know him! He set fire to my apartment; left everything to burn but a picture of us, he—he took _you_, Tali, he—"

"I do not belong to you!"

Ziva took in her breath and looked at Malachi helplessly, pleadingly, as if she believed he had a better understanding of this woman who looked like Tali, who spoke like Tali, but who could not have been any more different. He straightened in his chair and cleared his throat, "Tali, perhaps you should listen to Ziva. She—"

"You don't get to tell me what to do," she snapped at him.

"Then who does? _Hadar_?" Ziva challenged.

"I trust him."

"He used you!"

"He made me who I am."

"Exactly!"

The sudden silence that fell over the room was charged. Tali's expression of anger changed to one that was as hard and as blank as marble. No one moved for many moments; even Gibbs who had kept himself in the corner of the room for most of the conversation tensed visibly.

"Tali, I—" Ziva choked, "I am so sorry."

Tali said nothing as she pushed herself out of her chair with a kind of grace that startled Ziva. Regretfully she remembered the day Tali had tripped over her little feet all those years ago in Jerusalem in pursuit of an orange and wondered if that girl still existed somewhere inside of her; perhaps locked away in a secret box, tucked underneath the debris of a crumbled life.

As Tali walked out of the conference room with a dramatic slam of the door (which was _very_ much like her, mind you) the memory went too.

Ziva had let her sister go again.


	7. Chapter 7

_A/N: This sort of wrote itself, with a lot more dialogue than I'm used to. I hope you enjoy it! Thank you for your thoughts and reviews and your incredible patience!  
__Content warning: As always, read carefully._

**Chapter 7**

_**Washington, fall 2009 (present day)**_

"Ziva,"

She did not turn around, did not even look at Malachi as he entered the lady's room and closed the door behind him. She clung to the counter, her knuckles white, her lips tight, her expression empty. But as it was with the David women, the truth was in their eyes. And so Malachi had no trouble discerning what was going on inside of her.

He knew Ziva too well.

"She will come around when she is ready," he promised, hoping the fact would ease her. "Tali is not like you and me. She is—"

"I know," Ziva said. She turned to lean with her back against the counter, her arms crossed over her chest as she stared blankly at the wall. "I did not mean what I said to her," she sighed.

"You did," Malachi said and shook his head to himself. He moved to stand next to Ziva. "You meant what you said."

She looked up at him, surprised.

"You always wanted to protect her," he said when he saw her expression. "You spoke about it all the time: how afraid you were for your sister. You never wanted her to follow in your footsteps or your father's footsteps."

"She wanted to take me to Masada that summer. Tali wanted to be an opera singer."

"And had you been there, she might have become just that."

"Is that why they took her away from me?" Ziva was unable to think of a single thing that would explain why her father and Hadar had done this. It never occurred to her that the reason may have been as simple as wanting to make Tali a soldier. Eli's priorities had always been a little twisted.

"I don't know Ziva," Malachi sighed, "I don't know why they did it."

"Does he love her?"

The question caught him off guard and he looked down at her with a questioning raise of his eyebrow. "Who?"

"Hadar. Does he love her?"

"Very."

Ziva said nothing. Her head ached with memories of Hadar. (_'You are the reason Rivkin is dead. All we could do is clean up after you.'_) It was difficult for her to imagine that this man was capable of love when he had not hesitated to destroy her apartment, to take everything Ziva held close to the heart, including the very last thing she had of Tali and Tali herself. It was difficult to imagine that her sister was still a generous, warm-hearted, compassionate woman despite having been influenced by the two most questionable men that she knew.

"Give her time, Ziva," Malachi said finally, "She will be back."

—

"It's late," McGee said as he came back from the lab and found Ziva still sitting at her desk, bent over a pile of unfinished reports and a cup of coffee. "You should go home. It's been an exhausting day."

Ziva shook her head, "I have work to do."

"Are you sure that's the real reason you're staying?" Ziva did not answer. "Have you heard anything?"

"No," she sighed, "Nothing."

No one had heard anything from Tali since she had taken off in a fit of anger. Ziva could not blame her. She would have done the same. But it was getting dark and she was beginning to worry. Tali did not know her way around Washington. She had no phone, no money, not even her coat. All that was in her bag which Ziva kept underneath her desk. Often these past few hours had she itched to look inside, to see what her sister carried with her in hopes that it would give them a clue as to where she was; but this would be a gross invasion of privacy and Ziva would not do that to Tali.

Instead she sat and waited, hoping that Tali would return to the navy yard as Malachi had promised she would.

"We will," McGee said encouragingly. "If she's anything like you, she'll want to know the truth."

"Thank you, McGee."

—

Tali had always taken to water when miserable. The water was calming. The sound of ocean waves soothed the fire that burned underneath her skin; the gentle breeze reminded her that she did not float in space, all alone, but that she was a part of this world, no matter how twisted it was. The anger had worn off many hours ago, sometime in the afternoon when she had crossed from Washington to Alexandria, and was replaced by a kind of sorrowful fatigue that left her mind oddly blank.

She found comfort in the waves that gently lapped at her feet. When she closed her eyes she could almost imagine that she was in Jaffa. _Almost_. The water here was cold and dirty. It smelled of seaweed and fuel. She did not sit in the warm Mediterranean sand but by an old wooden dock, and the ocean was not an ocean but a small marina. In the distance she heard the sound of approaching airplanes. She was not far from Ronald Reagan.

But Tali did not complain. Even as the sun went down and she began to shiver in the night air, she continued to look over the water for a long time, counting the waves as they crashed ashore. Here, far from the navy yard and the confusing truths that had been revealed to her today, she felt peaceful. As if nothing mattered but the water. As if the world around her could wait.

And the world did wait, for Tali anyway.

It was late into the night when a knock startled Malachi out of his slumber. He glanced at the clock, 1:02 a.m., and ran a hand through his disheveled hair. A second impatient knock came and he crawled out of the bed, now convinced he had not dreamed it.

"Tali," he said when he opened the door.

"I do not have my keys," she said as she pushed past him into the room. He closed the door and watched her as she moved around the room in pursuit of scattered belongings.

"Where have you been," he managed finally, stepping further into the room and into Tali's way. She stopped and looked up at him. Malachi took in his breath. Even in the dark he noticed her burning cheeks and her blue lips. Her hand was as cold as ice when it brushed past him. He shook his head, "You should have called."

"I do not have my phone, either. Get out of my way," Tali said and continued to collect a fresh set of clothes, a hair brush, and a bottle of aspirin.

"We were worried about you."

"Oh, really," Tali said, but her tone implied that she did not want to hear about it.

"Ziva, especially. She feels terrible."

Tali said nothing and headed towards the bathroom, but Malachi moved to stand in the door. She glared at him threateningly but he did not waver.

"Be angry at me all you want, Tali. God knows I deserve it. But Ziva does not."

Although she continued to say nothing, Malachi knew his words had reached her when her eyes softened and she looked away to hide it. He moved out of her way and let her go about her business. Once Tali was in the shower, he picked up the phone.

"She is home."

—

Ziva felt relieved to know Tali was safe, even though she had not returned to the navy yard but the hotel. The nausea that had been caused by anxiety, too much coffee and too little to eat, disappeared almost instantly. She hung up the phone and let her head fall into her hands, suddenly overcome with tiredness.

"I don't think you will need this," Tony said as he arrived back at the squad room with two coffees in his hands. "Was that Malachi?"

"Yes. She came back to the hotel room," Ziva said, her relief apparent in her features. They were oddly vulnerable and available. Tony saw for miles into her eyes.

"Do we know where she was?"

"No. She didn't say."

Tony lowered himself into his chair, happy about this news. He had been worried about Ziva since Vance had taken her into interrogation this morning. It seemed like a lifetime ago that they had all watched the surveillance video of Hawthorne's murder; difficult to believe it was not more than twenty-four hours ago. He wondered how Ziva had managed to stay calm during all of this.

"Let me take you home," he offered then. "Nothing is going to happen until tomorrow. You need to sleep." Tony knew she did not sleep. He knew she struggled. And he knew she would never admit it.

"I am fine, Tony," Ziva said and even mustered a smile.

"Great, then how about a drink?"

They did end up at Ziva's new apartment after all, having decided that drinking in their state of mind would be unwise. They opted for mild liquor instead and currently sat over two glasses of wine in the living room.

"I saw her, you know," Ziva said after a while. "I saw her a year ago in Jerusalem. I did not believe it."

"What do you mean you saw her?" Tony frowned.

Ziva put her glass down and sighed. "Before I went to Morocco I went to Jerusalem. She walked by me, and," she shook her head, "I should have known it was her, I should have—"

"How could you? You thought she was dead."

"That is no excuse."

It never was. Tony knew this as well as Ziva. There had been a time when he trusted his instincts, a time when he had considered them above reason, above logic. He should have known Ziva was alive when everyone believed she was dead, should not have given up hope so quickly, should have looked for her instead of sentencing himself to death. He understood that nothing excused not having looked closer, not having paid better attention. Maybe he could have saved her sooner. The guilt of this weighed on him as much as he was sure it weighed on Ziva.

"Get some sleep," he said finally and put a hand on Ziva's shoulder. "You have a long day tomorrow."

"What happens tomorrow?"

"You will talk things out with your sister."

—

Tali slept in late. Not even the midday sun that burned through the curtains woke her. Malachi checked on her every other hour to make sure she was still breathing. She had started to cough during the night and he was worried she had caught a cold during her stubborn retreat. But he did not wake her, knowing just how much she needed these few hours of sleep.

When he came back from a coffee-run, however, he was surprised to find her awake and restless at the foot of her bed.

She looked at him when he entered the room. "Is that for me?" Tali asked, referring to the single cup of coffee he held in his hand. Malachi said nothing as he gave it to her. She took a sip and made a face, "Ugh. That is disgusting."

"How are you feeling?"

Tali inspected the cup closely, opening the lid and taking a whiff of it. "Is this some kind of pumpkin brew?"

"It is Halloween soon," he said matter-of-factly. "You know how much the Americans love Halloween."

"It is not for another month," Tali said and tossed the cup away. Malachi sighed as he looked after his coffee in the trash but decided to say nothing about it. He would get another one on his way to the navy yard.

"How are you feeling?"

"Tired," she said.

For a few moments no one said anything. Tali rubbed her eyes and pushed her hair over to one shoulder and leaned back into her bed. Malachi watched her closely, wondering if and when she would come forward with the questions that were sure to burn at the tip of her tongue.

"Ziva asked about you," he said finally, no longer able to bear the silence. Malachi understood the dilemma, and the pains of the sisters: two lives that had once been closely intertwined were now held together by a single thread. Old roots had withered away and new ones have anchored miles apart. And he felt wholly responsible for this. All the more he wanted to make it right; not for himself but for Ziva, and especially for Tali. "She would like to speak to you."

Tali pushed herself up on her elbows, raising an eyebrow at Malachi. "Did she call?"

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, considering carefully. "Three times this morning. She wants to apologize. You did not give her the chance to explain yesterday, and I think it would be very important for you to hear her out."

"Why would I want to do that?"

"Because you can trust her, Tali. That is why."

—

It felt much like a déjà vu when Ziva waited in the squad room for Tali to arrive. Only this time she knew what to expect. The elevator door opened and she perked up. Tali walked in, followed by Malachi and Gibbs who had just gotten himself another coffee. She watched them closely as they entered and felt mildly surprised when Tali came to a stop in front of her. They looked at each other for a long moment.

Then, "Ani mits'taeret," Tali said, nodding sincerely, "I should not have walked away."

Ziva was so stunned that for a moment she did not know what to say. Here was Tali, her sweet baby sister, speaking to her for the first time directly. And although they did not know each other, Ziva found familiarity in Tali's eyes, a kind of comfort. She shook her head, "No, you—I am sorry. I am," – a suddenly emotional breath – "so sorry, Tali."

The swell of emotion, especially coming from Ziva, surprised everyone that knew of her habit to suppress. And it stood as a testament of how much she cared about her sister and how much she had suffered that she was not able to keep it down, even in front of Tony; even in front of Gibbs. Ziva swallowed hard, battling the feelings.

A moment passed in which Tali considered what to do. Ziva was a stranger to her, but her heart ached with anyone's pain. She was not able to ignore the tears that had welled up in the eyes of her sister, and so she stepped forward to wrap her into a shy but genuine embrace. Ziva, in her confusion and surprise, did not know how to respond and could only fall into her sister's arms as she had longed to do for so many years.

"Ze beseder," Tali whispered into Ziva's hair, "It is okay."

They stood like this for a long time. Tali ran her hands through Ziva's hair, finding a strange but familiar comfort in it, truly, as if she had done this before. The scent of Ziva's skin and hair woke something inside of her, but it was a feeling she could not identify. Instead she decided to linger silently in this embrace and to give Ziva the comfort she so obviously needed.

Only then did Tali understand that Ziva cried because of _her_; because she had missed her and spent years mourning her and mourned her still. All this time, Tali had been dead to her. And although present in the flesh and blood, she was no longer the baby sister Ziva had known and loved as her unintentional outburst had made very clear.

There was so much that was _wrong _in this moment, but nothing mattered as their hearts began to beat in sync and Ziva's breathing began to even with Tali's. She continued to whisper reassurances, sweet Hebrew songs into Ziva's ear to calm her.

A phone went off in the back. Tony answered.

Then, "Boss… Eli David is downstairs."

Tali and Ziva came out of their embrace rather suddenly. Ziva stared at Tony with an expression of blatant horror that Tali could not understand.

Gibbs pushed himself up from his chair and walked around the table. He looked at Ziva and nodded understandingly. "Take your sister to the break room," he said.

—

"Special Agent Gibbs," Eli David said as he strode into the squad room, followed by Hadar and the agent that was escorting them. He held out his hand in a manner of greeting. "I wish we would meet again under different circumstances, but," – a pause – "there are certain things a person cannot foresee."

Gibbs accepted his greeting with a firm shake of his hand. "Director David. Officer Hadar."

"Shalom, Agent Gibbs."

"Now," Eli said, rubbing his hands together, "Where is my daughter?"

Gibbs felt oddly humored, "which one?"

"I am aware I have caused your agency quite the trouble," Eli said and looked at Gibbs meaningfully. "But I believe this business has become one of family. You understand, no?"

"No," Gibbs said simply, his tone suggested very subtly the greatest distaste for what Eli had done to his children.

There was a moment of strained silence in which they scrutinized each other carefully: the father by blood and the father by choice. Gibbs knew he was unable – un_willing _if he was being honest – to give Eli what he wanted, namely his oldest daughter. Ziva may not have said it out loud, but it was evident in her body language and the look of sheer horror in her expression that she did not want to see him, much less speak with him. She had resigned from Eli's agency besides.

"With me," he said finally and with a gesture of his hand invited Eli and Hadar to follow him up into the conference room.

—

"Why did he send us away?" Tali asked suspiciously, looking down the hall as if she could see through the walls at the end and into the squad room.

Ziva glanced at Tony. He knew better than anyone why she could not and would not see her father. It was not because she was angry or hurt. It was not even because of what he had done to Tali. It was because of what lived on and under her skin; scars, visible and invisible; terrible memories of a dreadful summer in a dreadful place that haunted her and stole her sleep. It was pride that kept her from seeing her father.

And, although she would never admit it, it was also fear.

Eli David was not a father anymore. He had become a murderer when he left Ziva to die in the desert.

Tali could not understand this. She had come to know Eli and Hadar differently. She knew the latter as a loving, caring father and the former as a perhaps harsh but dedicated director. She had no idea of what Ziva had experienced, what she had been through at the hands of their father. She did not know the bitter resentment Ziva felt for the man that was Eli David. And perhaps for this, Tali was lucky.

"They are in the conference room," Malachi announced as he joined them in the break room. "Come on," he said to Tali and with one hand on the small of her back led her to the table where Ziva was trying very hard to keep still.

"They?" Tali asked.

"Hadar is here, also."

"Oh, isn't that great," Tony sighed pathetically and earned himself a glare from Tali. It sent a shiver up his spine for it reminded him of the many times in the past Ziva had looked at him like this. To him it felt as though Tali was the living embodiment of her sister's past, a glimpse of who Ziva had once been: confident, witty, not taking anybody's shit.

Tali was, in more was than one, a reminder of all Ziva had lost.

"Sorry," he said to redeem himself.

His apology did very little to appease Tali and so she sunk into her chair feeling rather defeated. It had become very clear to her that no one in this agency seemed exceptionally fond of her father, or even owned much respect for him. It felt a lot like a stab at herself, for she had believed herself a part of Hadar for many years. This sense of belonging was not going to go away simply because she had been told a number of confusing things by a number of people she hardly knew.

The little girl inside of her heart longed for her Aba, because only his truth she would believe.

Tali cleared her throat, "I am going to the bathroom," she said and got up. She paused and looked at Malachi curiously when he stood up to follow her. "What," she said, "You want to come into the stall with me?"

It was this joking manner in which Tali spoke that eased and embarrassed Malachi all the same. He nodded and settled back into his chair opposite of Ziva. And this served Tali in every way as she walked away and turned left, instead of right to the lady's room, in pursuit of the conference room.

—

Through the door she could hear their voices; muffled, silent, tense. Eli David was speaking: "What is my family does not concern you," he said in a low voice, "She is my daughter, and therefore my responsibility."

"With all due respect," Gibbs said, his tone implying that there was none, "We got her out of the desert, not you."

"And for this, I thank you," said Eli. "I have since tried to reach out to her, but Ziva will not respond to any of my attempts at reconciliation."

"Does that surprise you?" Gibbs asked. "You left her to die in the desert, Eli."

There was a moment of prolonged silence and Tali inched closer to the door in a childish attempt to hear better what they were saying. Hadar spoke. The sound of his voice twisted her stomach into knots. She swallowed hard.

A sudden voice behind her startled her, "Miss Hadar," and Tali recoiled so quickly she nearly bumped her head against the door. She breathed a curse and looked up, trying to deflect from the flush in her cheeks with a confident recovery.

"It is _Officer _Hadar, Sir," she corrected the man she vaguely recognized as being Director Vance. He approached her curiously, his expression blank and difficult to read. "I was just—"

"Spying?"

"It is a closed conference."

"And you were not invited?"

"No, Sir."

Momentarily she wondered if he would give her away. And when he moved towards the conference room, his eyes wandering from her to the door and back, she was sure he was about to do just that. But then he merely regarded her with a nod and proceeded down the hallway without another word.

Tali looked after him and let out a breath of relief when he was gone. She took a moment to collect herself before leaning back against the door when it suddenly opened.

Another sharp breath, another curse, "_Harah_," and she stumbled backwards to find three sets of eyes staring at her. Her face flushed.

"Tali," Hadar breathed.

—

"You lied to me."

"Bevakasha, Tali, sit. And we will talk," Hadar pleaded with her when they found themselves in the interrogation room for some privacy.

"How could you lie to me like that?"

"I ask myself this question since the day you called me Aba. Please sit."

Tali shook her head, "I have a sister."

"Yes," he sighed.

"She thought I was dead, she thought—How could you do that to _her_? Have you seen her? Ziva, she—" At a loss of words Tali finally slumped into the chair and ran both hands through her wild hair. "I do not know how to fix this."

Hadar sat down opposite of Tali. His heart ached when she took the blame for all of this; as if she believed she was responsible for Ziva's grief, her pain. And knowing Tali's tender heart he knew that it was likely. He shook his head, "This is not yours to fix, Taleh. You have done nothing wrong."

"Ani lo yoda'at mi ani," she breathed helplessly. Her chest tightened and Tali choked. She tried to mask this with a cough.

"My daughter," he said, "That is who you are." Hadar reached over the table for her, but Tali darted away.

Again standing, she looked down at him exasperatedly. "Is it?" There was a challenge in her voice, and an undertone of pain which she also hoped to mask.

"You are feeling a lot of things right now," he said calmly as he too pushed himself from his chair. Hadar walked around the table and took her by the shoulders. She let him this time. "And you are allowed to all of them. But do not doubt my love for you, Taleh. Never doubt my love."

Tali tried very hard to stay angry at her father. He deserved it. But when he looked down at her with a desperate, deeply saddened look she could not bring herself to feel this kind of resentment. Her lower lip quivered and she looked away.

"Breathe, Tali," Hadar whispered, knowing of her tendency to forget to breathe when she was upset. Once, a long time ago, she had even passed out from a lack of oxygen; all because she had been angry at a boy. He moved his hand to her sternum, helping her find her breath again.

When she did, the tears came. Hadar, unlike Eli entirely, appreciated it when Tali shared how she felt. He supposed it was the secret to their bond, a bond that was much stronger than the bond Eli shared with Ziva. It was not blood that held them together. It was never blood. But something else; something he had no name for. And so he took her into his arms and Tali let herself be taken. For many years, it was only here that she felt safe.

"She loves me so much," Tali wept, "And I do not even know who she is."

"You will learn. You will find your way back to each other."

Tali wanted to believe him, and despite all the lies he has told, she did. She needed to believe him, even if this would be the last time. Once her breath and heart had calmed and Tali again felt steady on her feet, she pulled away. She searched her father's eyes for many moments.

Then, "What happened to her in the desert?"


	8. Chapter 8

_A/N: I do not have an excuse as to why I have not updated in forever other than I really, really suck. A huge thank you to everyone who is still keen on reading this for your incredible patience and inspiring reviews. A special thank you goes to dove-cotes for dealing with my constant flailing. This story is still my baby and your feedback means the world to me even after all this time! (Everyone reading _The sun dies like an animal: _I will have the next chapter up soon as well!)  
__Disclaimer: I do not own NCIS and I am in no way affiliated with the show and/or its creators. (But the writing and the basic plot-idea is mine yakno.)  
__Content warning: As always, read carefully._

**Chapter 8**

_**Washington, fall 2009 (present day)**_

Thirty minutes. Tali had been gone for nearly thirty minutes and Ziva bristled. She wanted to go and look for her, and find her before their father did. Eli David was here somewhere, stalking the agency in sure pursuit of his daughters; like a lion in search for his prey. He would strike when they least expected it. Ziva did not want it to happen to Tali first.

Malachi watched Ziva from across the table. The ups and downs of her inner dispute, the constant back and forth of should-I and should-I-not. The struggle did not go past him and there came a point when he could no longer take it. "I will find her," he said and pushed himself out of his chair. "She could not have gone f—_harah_!"

A set of dark eyes stopped him in his tracks. Malachi let out a huff and recoiled. Tali smiled up at him, obviously amused. "This will not be necessary," she said. "Ani kan."

"Where have you been?" Malachi asked, frowning at her suspiciously. Something in her eyes had changed. They were darker, colder. Something moved in them.

Tali looked back at him with a questioning raise of her eyebrows, "Do you want details?"

Malachi shuddered and turned away. In her peripheral view she saw Tony cringe as well at her remark and she strained herself to suppress a satisfied grin. She had always derived a little bit of pleasure from making people uncomfortable.

Ziva was the least bothered. Most of the previous conversation had gone over her head. She was simply glad Tali had not run into their father. They were both naturally keen on confrontation; Ziva shuddered at the thought of what would have happened.

"I would like some coffee," Tali said kindly and offered Ziva one of the two overcoats she carried in her arms. "Will you show me where I have to go?"

It took a moment or two for Ziva's thoughts to catch up. She briefly glanced at the coffee-machine in the room and quickly took the hint. Tali had only brought her own and Ziva's coats. Malachi and Tony were not invited. She smiled, "I will walk you."

—

Malachi and Tony, now alone, sat in silence for many moments following Ziva and Tali's departure. Neither had very much to say; each wallowed in his respective guilt. Malachi, out of the two of them, had the most to chew on. He had betrayed not one but both sisters, had failed in terms of partnership, friendship and loyalty the few people that relied on him.

The fact that Tali was still able to look at him stood as a token of her good nature. She had always been very forgiving. It was one of the more prevalent things the sisters had in common.

Ziva was forgiving too.

But could what he had done be forgiven? His crime was not an ordinary crime that could be weighed on the scales of justice. He had not murdered. He had not abused. (Not this time.) His crime was silence when he had known better. He had let himself become a pawn in the game of Eli David and Amit Hadar, men he had once admired for their devotion to their country, but now despised with every fiber and bone in his body.

Malachi wondered if they had ever seen the pain in Ziva's eyes, and if so, did they feel as guilty as he?

He did not know enough of their scheme to understand the whys. What had been the point of taking Tali away from her family, away from the people that knew and loved her, that could have helped her recover and perhaps even remember?

What had been the point of causing Ziva so much grief?

And why had they trusted _him _out of all people to partner with Tali, especially since they had known of his past relationship with Ziva?

Had he perhaps fallen into dept, and was this the price he had to pay for touching the daughter of Eli David?

"Do you ever wonder how things would be if you had made the right choices?"

Tony nodded, "Yeah, I do."

—

"You did not care for the coffee, did you?"

It was a casual observation. Tali had not taken a sip since they bought it. It was getting cold in her hands but she did not seem to mind.

Ziva smiled at the sight of her sister, wrapped up in her coat, breathing onto the steaming lid. She had not seen her so huddled up since they accompanied their father on a friendly trip to Moscow.

That was eight years ago.

The memory clouded Ziva's mind. Red Square in the dead of winter. A snowball fight between the sisters. Laughter echoing through the plaza at midnight. Things had been simple then.

"I thought we could use some air," Tali said. "Some time, too. We have not had the chance to speak very much."

"I am sorry about what I said. I shouldn't have."

"Did you mean it?"

Ziva swallowed. "Yes. I did."

Eyes traveled over the Potomac as the weight of Ziva's statement settled between them. Across the river Tali saw the spot where she had spent a few hours last night. It lost some of its magic in the light of day.

"That does not make it right," Ziva continued when Tali said nothing. She knew what they were both thinking. The brutal truth was better than a sugar-coated lie, but of what use was the truth when it only served to hurt? Ziva had put into question all that Tali was as a person with a single word. There was no excuse.

"Malachi says I can trust you."

Ziva was almost too afraid to ask. "Do you?"

"How can I not when you are so blatantly honest with me?"

There were no hard feelings between them. The relief was immediate. Ziva's expression softened. The tension eased out of the muscles around her mouth. It became easier to smile.

"Malachi also says you have been worried about me."

Ziva looked over, searching for the question in Tali's statement. It was all there, uncoded, in the darker shades of her eyes. "Of course I was! You are my sister."

Tali laughed bitterly, "How much of her do you see in me?"

_Everything_, Ziva wanted to say. She saw everything in Tali and more. But it would be too much to confess all at once; too much to take in. Tali had always been easily overwhelmed. It was the difference between the sisters. Ziva endured; Tali did so with a dash of panic.

"You wanted to be a singer," Ziva said finally. "There was nothing you wanted more. You sang all the time."

"Ani adayin. I still do."

Ziva smiled. "You wanted to take me to Tosca at Masada that summer. You even had the tickets."

_**Masada, summer 2002 (flashback)**_

She wore the dress Tali had picked out for her. It was a long, silky gown Ziva felt ridiculous in. It nestled a little too closely to her curves and she tripped over it often. The heels hurt her feet and her nail polish chipped as she clung to the railing of the cableway. She endured the torment of fashion, however, for Tali would not have allowed an argument.

In her head she could hear her. _'Shoulders back, Zivaleh.' _

Her heart was heavy. The way up the mountain, although she did not have to walk it this time, was a strain on her grieving bones. The weight she carried in her purse, a second ticket without an owner, was heavier than any gear.

The last time she had been up here was to pledge allegiance to her country.

In full uniform and pride she had climbed the snake's path up to Masada. She would do it again a thousand times, for it would be easier than this.

Ziva still heard the voices of her fellow soldiers as she stepped onto the platform, swearing in unison loyalty and dedication to Israel. It was a song forever embedded into these stones; a song that changed in voices but never in tact or intent. It was a promise renewed every time a new group of soldiers came up here to take their oath, an oath to protect their country and people.

Why had no one protected _her_?

Tonight there were soldiers stationed by the entrance, in and around the plateau, rough olive tones amongst silky gowns and ties.

"Your ticket, ma'am," a young man asked. Ziva gave him two.

She thought it would be easier to breathe once the second ticket was gone. She thought it would be easier to walk. But the grief was like lead in her bones, weighing her down to this earth, making it impossible to reach her sister no matter how high she climbed.

Her stomach turned at the sight of the stage, at the sight of all the people dressed in gowns Tali would have swooned over. Ziva's vision blurred from dizziness and tears. She swore it was the heat. Swaying on her feet, she kicked off her shoes.

The desert had always thrived on the blood of bare feet anyway.

Ziva understood a thirst for blood. Her throat burned and her lungs gasped for that sweet taste of revenge. It was a drug that filled the void of Tali's absence, an addiction that was satisfied only by the blood of those that were responsible for her death.

It was possible to live without a heartbeat. Ziva knew that now.

Tali had gotten third row tickets, but Ziva could not stand the thought of an empty seat beside her. And so she lowered herself onto an ancient stone by the western side of the mesa. Through it she felt millennia of hardship. The blood of her ancestors mixed with that of her sister mixed with her own as fingers scraped at stone and sharp edges dug into flesh. A piece broke off in the shape of a spearhead.

Later Ziva would take it to Tali's grave. She would lay stone upon stone to keep the spirit grounded; a gift to her sister and a new promise.

But today she wept into sand-stained hands.

_**Washington (present day)**_

"You went alone?"

"I did not want to let you down."

Tali could not believe it; that Ziva went alone in fear to let her down even in death. She had never exerted so much influence on anyone in her life. It startled her, scared her even. Tali did not want so much power. "But I was… _dead_?"

Technically she had been in recovery then, nursing third degree deep tissue burns down her entire left torso. At that time Tali had wished she was dead, but that was beside the point.

"I made a promise to you. You would not have let me get out of it."

"Did you enjoy it?"

"I would have a lot more with you there."

Tali smiled, "There is always next time, you know."

There would be a next time and a time after that, for if there was one thing Ziva had learned in the last few days it was that she would never let Tali go again. She had made that mistake a few times for good measure, but not again; _never _again.

"Can I ask you a question?"

Ziva looked over. "Of course."

Tali took in her breath, considering phrasing and choice of words, but then figured there was no delicate way to ask. "Why do you not want to talk to your father?"

"You noticed, huh?"

"It was difficult to miss."

There was a long pause in which Ziva thought of how Tali had predicted all of this. _('He will kill you one day!') _At the time she had not believed her. Eli David loved his children!

In the end he had killed them both.

"You do not know Eli the way I do."

"Maybe not. We still have to talk to him."

"_We_?"

Tali smiled, "Aht ve'ani. You and I."

The words were so comforting coming from Tali's mouth, the sound of her voice when she spoke their native tongue soothing like the songs of their mother. The older Tali got the more similar they became and Ziva allowed herself to think that she had not only gotten back her sister, but her Ima too.

"I have missed you so much," Ziva breathed.

"I will always be here," Tali promised.

—

This was not how she imagined coming face to face with her father. Often in the past she had thought about what she would say to him, but as it was when she had first seen Tali, Ziva had no words for the man that raised her when they were finally together in the same room.

Unlike Tali. She had plenty to say.

But the answers were vague. Eli David spun the truth to his favor. Nothing made sense from an outsider's point of view. Tali strained her head to follow, but his sheer indifference in regards to Ziva and Tali's well-being made it impossible. It had her question how this man was human, let alone a father.

"It was about Ziva's _grief_?"

Tali threw up her hands and let out a sharp breath. She had expected something grand, something earth-shattered, something that would have agencies across the world worry for the security of their nations. Not _this_.

"You took me away because you wanted Ziva to be _sad_?"

"Not sad, Tali. _Driven_."

On a professional level, Eli's scheme deserved credit. To utilize Ziva's grief to make her his perfect soldier. It was brilliant! He had built a machine that would charge itself with the simple memory of her sister. One thought of Tali and Ziva was ready to bite, to attack, to throw her life on the line because it did not matter if she died.

At least she would be with her sister then.

The achievements spoke for themselves. Ziva had surpassed herself, had become a respectable agent, an invincible agent, a feared agent, the best of her kind.

She had become a broken agent.

On a human level, what Eli had done to his children was downright disgusting.

"Myself aside, have you considered what you have done to _her_?"

Tali made up for all Ziva lacked in confidence and volume with fury and a language Hadar – at the very end of the conference table – was glad no one outside the room could understand. He cringed, but he had no answers for her.

And Eli seemed all too proud of the results of his plan. "Look at all the successful missions," he argued.

"Look at _Ziva_," Tali retorted.

Eli did.

Ziva stared at her hands, expression blank, posture strained. The muscles around her mouth tensed when she felt the eyes of everyone on her. She hated this kind of attention, hated being stared at, searched for faults and weaknesses. She swallowed hard.

Tali was quick to take the attention back, "Was it really worth it, Director?"

It was at this point that Ziva could no longer take it. She had been prepared for this. _'No one can ever truly know another person or his secrets,' _Eli used to say. The joke was on her. She hadn't seen it coming. Still under the scrutiny of her father Ziva pushed herself out of her chair, "Excuse me," and left the room.

"Taleh," Eli reasoned, "There is more to this than you think. Th—"

"There is strength in admitting to your faults, Director," Tali cut him off. It was perhaps the first time she had ever seen Eli David startled. "And that is Officer Hadar to you, Sir," she added before following Ziva out of the room.

—

"I am sorry," Ziva whispered, eyes closed, head leaning against the wall.

Tali smiled. She had approached quietly, had made not a sound and still Ziva knew it was her. "What for?"

"I could not listen to it anymore."

"I do not blame you. There is only so much bullshit a person can take in a day."

Ziva laughed, a genuine rumble in her chest. She blinked through her eyelashes and glanced at her sister. "You used to scold me for cursing."

Tali shrugged, "You were a bad influence."

A pause. Ziva let out a breath and narrowed her eyes in thought. "This was not what I expected," she said.

"What do you mean?" Tali asked and leaned against the wall next to Ziva.

"_This_. It does not make any sense to me."

"Did you expect a _plausible_ explanation for all of this?"

Ziva chuckled, "I suppose not. Do you think we should go back inside?"

"I think everything was said."

It was easier for Tali to accept that they would never know the truth, that they would never understand what exactly had propelled Eli to rip apart his own family. Tali could live without answers. It took a little longer for Ziva to realize that no explanation could possibly satisfy her.

Perhaps they were better off without one.

"He might separate us again."

Tali gave a sly smile and nudged Ziva with her shoulder, "The tables have turned. I know my power now."

Ziva understood. "Rule 16…"


End file.
